


His Sweet Oleander

by TheMourningMadam



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMourningMadam/pseuds/TheMourningMadam
Summary: After the brutal deaths of his wife and parents, Draco Malfoy shows up on the stairs of Grimmauld Place, half dead himself. He has turned coat and he is out for revenge against the Dark Lord, putting forth his every effort to assist the Order in defeating him. Hermione finds herself strangely drawn to the mysterious Death Eater as they work closely, despite her better judgment.





	1. Chapter 1

_ A/N: If you haven't yet, you can go read Decadence of a Defector and Like a Heartbeat. Two one-shots I wrote that are actually scenes from the future of this story (when retold here, it will be from the opposite POV).  _ **_Trigger Warning: graphic depiction of murder and self-mutilation._ **

 

Chapter 1:

 

As he frantically shoved clothing into an old rucksack, Draco’s heartbeat thrummed against his Adam's apple. His hands were shaking wildly, barely able to grasp anything at all as he attempted to work quickly. His stomach lurched violently, and he only narrowly made it to the bathroom before the food he had eaten earlier came back up with a sickening splash.

 

He did not know when the tears had begun to fall. Perhaps when he was still downstairs, in front of everyone? Or perhaps now, as he vomited weakly? Either way, hot streams spilled over his cheeks, collecting onto his chin before dripping down his shirt. His blood ran cold within him as he sank onto the tiled floor.

 

Drawing in breath was difficult. The events of the last two days nearly brought him to insanity and, despite  desperately trying to put it out of his mind long enough to get away, the memories overtook him completely.

 

_ "Astoria, you need to get out of here,” Draco told Astoria in the confines of their bedroom, just before Christmas. “The Dark Lord is displeased that you have been unable to conceive.” _

 

_ The raven-haired beauty sat primly on her vanity seat, and though her chin quivered, no tears fell. "We knew what was expected of us, Draco. We need to face it together." _

 

_ "He will kill you!" he hissed, crossing the room and grabbing her shoulders harshly. "You must run!" _

 

_ "He will find me anyway. Perhaps he will give us another year?" she inquired, sounding far too sensible to be speaking of an unreasonable monster. _

 

_ "He is not a patient man, Tori. He expected an heir by now—Theo and Daphne, Blaise and Hortense. Greg and Millie. They've all been able to produce children. He will not keep waiting—he blames you," Draco told her, his fingers digging into her shoulders. _

 

_ "I can't leave you here!" she cried, the first tear falling. _

 

Astoria Greengrass-Malfoy. A foolish witch. Draco's freshly deceased wife. Spinning the wedding band around his dead-cold finger, he tried to steady his breaths from where he was sprawled on the bathroom floor. The Malfoys had entered into a binding arranged marriage contract with the Greengrasses back when Draco was still suckling at his mother's breast. Two years ago, that contract had been fulfilled when Draco married Astoria.The Dark Lord had threatened the Greengrass parents into removing Astoria from Hogwarts so that she might become an heir-producing machine earlier than originally projected. Draco had never truly loved the girl; they had only been brought together out of contractual obligation. But he had grown to tolerate her, to see her as his wife, regardless of whether there was love between them or not.

 

The thought of consummating a marriage with Astoria when she was still sixteen had made him physically ill. Two years might not have been a huge difference—there was only seven hundred and sixty-two days between their two birth dates—but it felt a world of difference to him to take such a young bride when he himself had just turned eighteen. Eventually however, the Dark Lord caught on that the young couple had not even attempted. He had forced them to consummate on the one-year anniversary of their farce of a marriage, in front of a select group of Death Eaters, with even Draco’s parents in attendance.

 

Since then, the two had tried every month, dutifully shagging like rabbits during her fertile period. With no such luck. True to his word, the Dark Lord claimed his spare.

 

_ "Come closer, young Mister Malfoy,” the Dark Lord ordered. “I want you to look into your bride's eyes, watch the light leave as you take her life.” _

 

_ On the floor of the ballroom, a sticking charm held Astoria firmly against the marble. As she attempted to struggle, her skin tore in places where it was steadfastly attached to the surface.  _

 

_ "Tori!" Draco shrieked, fear arresting him in place as he stared in her direction. _

 

_ A trail of blood, thin and vermillion, ran in the crack of a marble stone, pouring from a spot on her wrist where she had managed to pry her hand free from the floor. The thin river of blood crawled toward his feet and Draco stood, transfixed at the sight.  _

 

_ "Come closer, Draco. Now!" With the firm command, the Dark Lord waved his wand in Draco's direction. Draco could feel his legs moving against his will, and he clenched his eyes shut as Astoria's cries filled the room, echoing off of the walls and reverberating against every corner of his brain.  _

 

_ "Draco, please!" she was screaming. Her voice was already growing hoarse with her pleas. _

 

_ Unable to find his voice, Draco could not say a word to either her or the Dark Lord. Terror had fully seized him as his wife continued to wail like a banshee, pleading with him pointlessly. Draco knew this was it—the Dark Lord would take her life, all because she had not been able to give him a child in a timely fashion. _

 

_ "Mister Malfoy, open your eyes and peer at your pretty little witch," the monster hissed, his voice eerily snake-like. When Draco shook his head a fraction of an iota, the Dark Lord let out an angry growl. "Now!" _

 

_ The young wizard felt his eyelids being magically pried apart. His head was shoved at a painful angle so that he might stare directly at her face.  _

 

_ "Kill her," came the orders he had dreaded since he had been brought into the ballroom. _

 

_ "No," he choked out, unable to say anything more. _

 

_ "Draco!" Astoria screeched, attempting frantically to pry her remaining limbs from the shining obsidian floor. "Draco, please! Don't do this!" _

 

_ Draco could feel his stomach turning over and he held his wand firm in his hand. He would be sick. The Dark Lord knelt beside Astoria, her blood covering his shoe's sole as he took her chin between his fingers harshly. Now directly in Draco's line of sight, he shot a wickedly nefarious grin in his direction. "Finish her, I said. So that we might find you a more useful match. Or three." _

 

_ His hawthorn wand was firm in his grip, though his hand trembled gravely. Forced to look into her eyes, he stared down, but refused to bring the incantation to his lips.  _

 

_ The Dark Lord's sneer dissolved into a murderous glare. "Imperio!" he said firmly, pointing his wand directly between Draco's magically wide-open eyes. _

 

_ A fog began to settle over his brain and his thoughts became scarce as his mind cleared, ready to accept whatever instruction was given.  _

 

_ "No!" Astoria yelped, doubling her efforts in trying to get away from the pair. _

 

_ "Give me that wand, boy. You're no wizard—you can't even finish this simpering, little tramp!" the Dark Lord growled, snatching Draco's wand from him. "Now, take the dagger from your boot and make a clean incision right across that dainty neck." _

 

_ "No! No!" Astoria was thrashing wildly, freeing another leg and effectively spreading the pool of blood around her even wider. _

 

_ As Draco leaned down to retrieve his blade from the cuff of his boot, she began attempting to kick him. The thought came to a dark recess of his mind that he would never do this willingly. Still he climbed over her, straddling her waist. Her cries ebbed to small hiccupping pleas. The tip of his knife touched her skin, drawing a scarlet necklace in its wake, her screams becoming gurgles as she drowned in her own blood. The Dark Lord lifted the curse, just in time for Draco to see his wand being broken in two by the maniac, before unconsciousness took him. _

 

Rising from the bathroom floor, Draco wiped his tears and the drippings from his nose on the back of his sleeve. He went to his closet and began digging through his suits, looking for the coat with the missing button. He threw clothing to the floor and angrily slapped away shoes. The suit-coat he was looking for was way at the back of the small room, and he nearly ripped it off its hook as he reached into the breast pocket.

 

A tiny square of parchment with an address rested within. He read it three times, committing it to memory before he crossed the room and tossed it into the fire. Sinking onto the edge of his bed, he looked around his room one last time as he unsuccessfully tried to catch his breath. Trinkets from his childhood, framed photos of himself and his parents, all of Astoria's belongings, his collection of books. All would have to be left behind.

 

Draco stood and walked to his tallest bookshelf, plucking a glass-framed photograph of himself and his mother when he was just a boy. His mother was hugging him from behind and smiling widely, in the indulgent way she always did when she was in the middle of spoiling him rotten. For his part, the Draco in the picture was giggling jubilantly. His heart caught in his throat and he swore he would quite literally choke on the damned organ as his hand fisted the front of his shirt, trying to pull the constricting garment away from his throat. Replacing the photo onto the shelf, he took the one beside it—his parents, both looking proud beside a thirteen-year-old Draco.

 

He should have known. Draco should have been astute enough to realize that the Dark Lord's retributive carnage would not simply end with Astoria's death.

 

_ The Dark Lord had ordered he go with Theodore Nott to interrogate a wizard in Nurmengard about a wand. After returning, while still reeling from his wife's death two days prior, Draco scraped his boots in the foyer of the Manor, and a house elf readily swept up the remnants of dirt. His nerves were singing within his body, his every synapse on edge since he had been forced to kill her.  _

_ He felt mentally exhausted, even as adrenaline coursed unrelentingly through his body. His feet carried him into the place he had once called home, but more accurately could be described as Hell now. Gone was his sense of safety within the confines of the sprawling fortress, the comfort of being  _

_ master of the Manor. His home had long felt cold and terrifying, ever since the Dark Lord had slithered in three years prior and made his nest there. _

 

_ Crossing the foyer, Draco kept as quiet as he could. Before the constant influx of Death Eaters around every corner, he would have once made his way to the kitchens for a snack, then sat with his mother for tea. Now, he quietly padded, a prisoner in his own home, and peered into empty rooms in search of his her. _

 

_ The day was bright and cheery, contrasting splendidly with the ever-present misery he waded through daily. Figuring his mother would be taking advantage of the first lovely day in weeks, he made his way to the back gardens. She tried, Merlin help her, to keep her wits about her for her son's sake, and Draco appreciated her efforts more than she could ever realize. He pushed open the heavy oaken French doors that led to the mezzanine and quickly felt all of the air leave his lungs in one breath. _

 

_ His vision began to blur as the blood rushed from his heart to his head, swirling dangerously behind his eardrums. In a split second, he wished to blind himself; the sight before him nearly ripped the very life from his core. _

 

_ Twenty feet above the ground, his parents were bound and levitating, upside-down. Their throats had been slashed in much the same manner the Dark Lord had forced Draco to kill his wife. They reminded him of the suckling pigs that had been hung upside-down in the market where his nanny had shopped when he was a boy. The piglets had made him nauseous then, but the sight before him now caused a visceral, guttural yowl to rip from his lips as the bile and stomach acid burned at the back of his throat. "Mother! Father!" _

 

_ Draco found his footing and ran toward them, trying to harness every ounce of concentration he could muster to perform wandless magic and get them down. In his grief and dismay, with his entire body vibrating violently, he was unable to gather his thoughts readily enough. Behind him, he heard a sound that perhaps was meant to be a cackle, but sounded more like a wheezing hiss. "Young Malfoy. I trust you approve of my choice in fertilizer for your mother's dear roses," the Dark Lord taunted, gesturing to where his parents' blood mixed, mingled, and dripped over his mother's prized damask roses. _

 

_ The younger wizard could not bring himself to respond. He willed his magic to leave his body and explode around the wheezing megalomaniac; he wanted to kill the bastard, to strangle him with his bare hands. But he knew an attempt would be futile—no one had been successful in overthrowing the Dark Lord yet—and would likely end in his own death. _

 

And so, Draco Malfoy found himself shaking uncontrollably on the edge of his bed, alternating between wet sobs and dry heaves. In the past, he would have welcomed death as an old friend. He may have even attempted it on his own, had he not thought it would ruin his parents. His mother was gone, and he could easily be free of his mind, memories, and reputation. Instead, Draco found he wanted revenge.

 

Every day since Dumbledore had offered him asylum with the Order, back in sixth year—had it only been three years?—Draco had fantasized about running away and joining the Light. He craved a world free of the Dark Lord, desired kindness and laughter, if only brief and fleeting. Draco wanted to smile once more, to be free to ride a broom for the hell of it, to find a witch to love properly. None of which could possibly happen within the confines of the hellhole that was his home, nor in whatever the world beyond had turned into.

 

His Mark, branded into his skin as an emblazoned, sinister reminder of his life's choices, burned like acid on his forearm. Draco pulled his sleeve back and stared at the infernal stigma. He had been such a foolish teenager, craving power and restored glory to the Malfoy name. How long had he now wished he could rid himself of this damned symbol of perverse control?

 

How could he ever show up, begging for help, if this infernal thing reminded everyone of where he had come from, what he had been? They would reject him immediately, lump him in with all the others. Draco may have been a Death Eater in title, but he had fallen far from the Dark Lord's good graces, and he knew he was a world away from the others—the ruthless and brutal murderers they were. But how could he possibly look at his arm every day and see that Mark, without thinking of his father's matching badge? Without thinking of the way his mother had quite literally begged him not to do it? The vision of his parents flashed through his mind once more, the sight of them tied up and bleeding out onto their own property angering him so severely that his vision went white.

 

Without a second thought, he lifted the leg of his trousers and retrieved the dagger he kept tucked into his boot. He tried to swallow down the memory of the knife's last use and held it firmly in his hand. There was no time to brew a pain potion, no time to obtain a new wand to cast cooling charms or healing charms. Draco knew what needed to be done, and so he did it without reservation.

 

The first slice of his dagger bloomed a ribbon of blood, crimson against the alabaster skin of his forearm. The sting caused him to hiss, but the adrenaline pumped so heavily that the pain caused an almost cathartic feeling to wash over him. His next cut was vertical and ran parallel to the side of the skull. "Fuck," his breath left him raggedly between clenched teeth.

 

The next two cuts created a macabre frame around the Dark Mark. Once the slices were completed, Draco took a moment. Clenching and unclenching his fist, his veins rapidly pushed the blood out. He watched as it ran in rivulets down his arm and puddled between his feet on the charcoal marble. His thumb pressed into the skull angrily, willing it to vanish, while his own warm, coppery-smelling blood covered his other hand.

 

Relishing the searing, purgative pain that danced like flames licking up his arm, he dug the tip of the dagger below the rugged rectangle, tearing the flesh away from the muscle and ligaments. It occurred to the wizard that he may actually faint, despite the manic pleasure he was garnering from the freedom each swipe of his knife was bringing. But still, he persevered. There was no turning back, no staying, no remaining under the Dark Lord's wand.

 

When his knife slipped from under the flesh, completely detached now, it went so forcefully that he sliced a deep gash into the heel of his hand. Draco peeled away the flesh as one might peel away wrapping paper at Christmas and tossed it into the fire.

 

From deep within the bowels of the Manor, he heard a bellowing screech. He assumed that the Dark Lord had felt his disloyal act. Panicked, Draco hastily wiped the blade against his trouser leg and stuffed the dagger into his boot. He clenched his haphazardly packed bag into his clawed hand as the blood was flowing rapidly from his arm and he felt momentarily certain he would die from the depth of the cuts. But if he were going to travel beyond the veil, the wizard was determined to die anywhere but at the pits of hell the Manor had been reduced to. He thought very distinctly of the address he had committed to memory and gathered all of the strength he had left to Apparate away.

 

When Draco landed, he was on an ordinary-looking street in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood. His body swayed dangerously where he stood, his right hand pressed into the raw spot where his Mark had been, his precious pure blood spilling out onto the street around him. Eleven. Thirteen. Just as his foggy mind registered that there was no Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, eleven and thirteen began to split apart, bricks springing forth between them.

 

The blood loss began to affect his motor control and he stumbled forth, desperate to reach the stoop of his mother’s ancestral home before it disappeared again. His brain could no longer remember who he was or why he was here. All he knew was that he was free.

 

_ o-o-o _

 

_ Author's Note: Please review this, lovelies! Feedback is always greatly appreciated! A very special thank you to  _ **_HeartOfAspen_ ** _ , who took Oleander under her wing when I was already nine chapters in and offered to beta. I am forever grateful!  _

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

 

"I'll be happy once we've moved completely away from here," Hermione Granger said into the frigid night air as she walked down Grimmauld Place.

 

Her companion, Remus Lupin, pulled his shabby cloak closer around his neck and tucked in his chin against the wind and sleet. As they came upon the townhouse, he agreed, "It hasn't been the same here since Sirius' death.”

 

The townhouse that had long acted as the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters was already in plain view, a fact that caused them both to simultaneously draw their wands and stand back-to-back, scanning their surroundings. Hermione's eyes searched the quiet London street, finding no one and nothing out of place. At nearly midnight, the neighborhood was empty, only their breathing breaking the silence. As she looked back toward the townhouse, she noticed a bundle of fabric on the doorstep. 

 

"Look," she whispered through barely parted lips.

 

Her astute partner was already eyeing the doorstep with hesitant curiosity. He took a single step forward, all the while watching their surroundings for any sign of movement. Hermione looked toward the bundle once more and noted a long trail of crimson, so dark it was nearly black, running from it and along the cracks of the cobblestones. 

 

"Remus, it's a person!" she gasped, stepping closer as horrific scenarios played through her mind of who might be bleeding out on the stoop.

 

"Hermione, be careful," Remus warned, covering her back as she crouched beside the crumpled figure.

 

The individual was wearing a thick, black cloak, made of something finer even than crushed velvet or cashmere. With a trembling hand, Hermione reached up and pulled back the hood. The gasp that parted her lips was involuntary as a head of white-blond hair was illuminated in the sparse moonlight. "It's Draco Malfoy!"

 

Whipping around, Remus pointed his wand directly where Malfoy was lying. But Hermione noticed that while she and Remus's breaths put clouds of mist into the cold night air, there was no puff of breath coming from Malfoy's mouth or nose. Wand in one hand in case this was a rouse, Hermione slipped her fingers under the neck of his cloak to feel his pulse point. For a moment, she felt nothing, and a sick feeling settled like a heavy stone in her stomach. But then, her finger caught a faint beat and, too many seconds later, another. 

 

"He's alive, but just barely," she informed her counterpart, running her hands over Malfoy’s frame and trying to find where he was bleeding from. Her hands touched something sticky and she drew it back to find it covered in congealed blood. Pocketing her wand, she began pulling at the sleeve of his traveling cloak. 

 

"Hermione," Remus warned at the sight of her stowing away her wand, but she ignored his brusque tone.

 

The source of Malfoy’s blood loss became evident as Hermione uncovered his arm completely; she nearly vomited as she leaned back on her haunches, covering her mouth with her hand to keep from gagging. The skin of his left arm had been flayed wide open and a large chunk of it—containing his Dark Mark, no doubt— had been completely removed. Raw muscle, tendons, and vessels were visible in plain sight. "We need to get him inside.”

 

"Hermione, he’s a Death Eater," Remus reasoned. "This could be a set-up."

 

"Someone attacked him. He's defenseless right now, considering he is dying. We can get him inside and send a Patronus to Kingsley. He'll bring the others, and they can figure out where to bring him from there. But he needs blood replenishing potions or he will die."

 

Remus glanced around them once more, almost as though he expected Malfoy to spring up and a horde of Death Eaters to storm them. Aloud, he observed, "This place has a Fidelius Charm placed on it. Only Secret-Keepers know its location. How did he find this place?"

 

Hermione’s unease deepened as she thought about what he was suggesting. Death Eaters knew of their headquarters. They had a leak in their ranks. 

 

A cold shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with the London chill. She looked back down at the limp form of their foe, his face screwed up in a grimace even in unconsciousness. "I don't know how he came to be here," she admitted, kneeling beside him and beckoning Remus forth. "Let's get him into the house and give him some potions."

 

"Step back, Hermione," Remus instructed, finally resolving to act and he levitated Malfoy's body three feet from the ground.

 

They quickly entered the house and Hermione ran upstairs, hastening to wake the few Order members staying there. She rapped harshly on Andromeda's door before slamming into a cupboard where they kept healing potions. As she opened her door, Andromeda was pulling a dressing robe around her shoulders and tying it closed as she looked around at the witch. 

 

"Grab whatever you can."

 

"What's going on?" the elder witch asked, scooping up an armful of the towels and bandages Hermione had put onto the sink vanity.

 

"Draco Malfoy has been injured—he's nearly dead. Remus has him downstairs," Hermione replied, Apparating herself to the ground floor.

 

Remus had levitated Malfoy onto a couch and used a severing charm on the length of his sleeve, exposing the wound for all to see. Andromeda gasped loudly and clapped a hand over her mouth. "He came," she choked out, kneeling next to him and using her wand to siphon the blood from his arm, face, and hair. "I was asleep," she said as an explanation as to why she had not known of his arrival, guilt masking her features.

 

"I've sent a message to Kingsley, ah—Lee, Dean," Remus said, watching as Lee Jordan and Dean Thomas both came ambling quickly down the stairs.

 

"Blimey, is that—" Dean began, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as though he were hallucinating.

 

"Yes, and we don't have long. Go get Molly," Remus instructed. Dean and Lee locked arms and Apparated away to their newest headquarters, a structure they called the "Compound."

 

Hermione rushed to Remus's side as he began whispering healing charms—he knew a vast array, considering the number of wounds he had self-inflicted over the years during his transformations. When Katie Bell, Grimmauld Place's last tenant, finally came down the stairs, Remus momentarily stopped his incantations long enough to instruct her to fill a shallow bowl with warm calendula and rose water. 

 

She looked down at the limp form of the man sprawled across the couch, hesitant. "Why are we helping him?" she queried, crossing her arms. "He nearly killed me once."

 

"Yes, and we are not like him. We still have compassion," Hermione bit out, tilting a vial of coppery liquid to the unconscious man's lips. "Either help or get out."

 

Katie glared in their direction for a moment before heading into the kitchen to retrieve the necessary herbs. Hermione lifted Malfoy's hand, finding his skin freezing cold, and elevated it above his head. Almost unnecessarily, she announced, "He's hypothermic.”

 

Andromeda began placing heating charms over his body just as Kingsley came bounding through the front door. 

 

"Remus, I got your patronus—" the ex-Minister's eyes grew wide as he caught sight of Draco Malfoy, nearly dead and surrounded by Order members attempting triage. Raising his wand and crossing to the window, he peered out to watching the night sky, as though they could be under siege at any moment. "Will he live?"

"We're trying," Remus replied.

 

Katie returned with the bowl of warm water, and after transfiguring a coaster into a short pedestal to hold it, Remus took it. 

 

"Place his arm into this," he instructed Hermione, enlarging the bowl to fit his entire forearm.

 

Just as Malfoy’s arm entered the water with a warm  _ splash _ , Molly Weasley entered. She had rollers in her hair and looked as though she had been ripped from a deep sleep. Dean and Lee followed her in, with Ron Weasley and Harry Potter behind them. 

 

"Hermione, back away from him," Ron said immediately, winding through several other individuals to reach her.

 

"He's dying, Ron," she told him, gesturing to Malfoy's listless frame.

 

The noise of everyone speaking, grumbling and speculating, was nearly deafening. Hermione tried her best to drown it out, concentrating on the long tendrils of Malfoy’s blood rinsing from her own hands and tainting the water. when the twins arrived, loudly declaring they ought to leave his body as bait, Kingsley stepped into action. 

 

"Secure the perimeter—Tonks, Bill, and Neville are already close by, searching for any of his friends," Kingsley instructed from behind them. 

 

As commanded,  everyone left to spread out around Grimmauld Place, and the din around Hermione finally quieted. Only she, Remus, Andromeda, Molly, and Harry remained in the room with Kingsley, who continuously watched through the window as other Order members arrived and took position. 

 

Hermione looked down at Malfoy's face for the first time since it had been cleared of blood. The grimace was gone, replaced with a look of blissful incognizance. His eyes were flickering behind the lids, while the faintest of peach coloring was returning to his pallid skin. As she studied him, her adrenaline began to ebb, to be replaced by common sense and logical reasoning. The man lying here, the one everyone was trying so hard to save, was a ruthless and trained killer. He was one of  _ his  _ foot soldiers, merciless and malicious. And yet, someone wanted to harm him. Had he been caught and then left for dead on the stairs? Did another Death Eater, or  _ all  _ of them, know where Grimmauld Place rested? Would there be a legion of angry followers swooping down on them at any moment, ready to avenge him?

 

All of the possibilities—the very ones Remus had attempted to voice outside—began to close in on her and she had to take a deep breath to try and clear her head. There was an acrid scent of Dark Magic lingering around Malfoy, no doubt from years of casting and basking in evil, and likely made more evident when his Mark had been carved away. The air about him tasted metallic as the blood and icy sleet that had soaked into his clothing began to thaw under the heating charms.

 

The others in the room were still talking, now in hushed voices, as Molly stepped up behind her. The motherly witch placed her hands on Hermione's shoulders and gently lifted her into a standing position. "Hermione. Why don't you go and make a spot of tea, hmm? I'll wrap his arm.”

 

Molly withdrew the mangled remains of Malfoy's arm from the healing bath. Uncorking a vial of Essence of Dittany with her teeth, she began applying it liberally over the wound. Hermione nodded numbly and went to the kitchen. Her hand shook as she tapped the stove with her wand and lit a fire under the kettle. The witch stared out of the window, charmed to show a country scene, though the house was nestled amidst a neighborhood in the city. Sleet had turned into large flakes of snow: a rarity in this part of Britain. Beside her, a small Christmas tree sat on the kitchen table, its lights twinkling magically, almost tauntingly.

 

When the kettle began to whistle, Hermione jumped, startled by the high-pitched keening. Scolding herself for being ridiculous, she pulled the kettle from the stovetop and arranged it with teacups, sugar and a carafe of milk onto a tray. Not trusting her trembling hands, she levitated it into the living room and placed it on the coffee table. Not one person in the room seemed the least bit interested in tea.

 

Molly had bandaged Malfoy's arm tightly, a tiny dot of vermillion staining the stark white as a bead of blood escaped his veins. They had vanished his cloak, shirt, and trousers, leaving him in only a pair of boxer briefs. Hermione removed his boots and a dagger clattered to the floor. It appeared to have been hastily cleaned and remnants of blood had dried in the once-elegant engraving. With a shaking hand, she dropped the weapon into his empty boot before removing his other one. Molly and Remus both scanned his pale form for any additional wounds, speaking in clipped tones of their findings. Reaching forward, Molly beckoned Harry to assist her in rolling him onto his side, so they could check his back. 

 

"Blimey, I've never seen so many  _ scars _ ," Harry muttered. He looked thoroughly put-out to be wasting magic on a Death Eater in any manner other than one conducive to interrogation.

 

"Poor dear," Molly remarked, running a damp cloth over his back to clean it of blood. "There's nothing else. Just his arm."

 

"If he's here, that means Narcissa is dead," Andromeda said aloud, her voice shaking unevenly as she patted her unconscious nephew's knee.

 

The witch, who bore a haunting resemblance to her sister Bellatrix, looked as though she had aged twenty years in the last ten minutes. Kingsley narrowed his eyes as he glared in her direction from his perch on the windowsill. "What does  _ that  _ mean? Did you go running your mouth? You are a  _ Secret-Keeper!" _

 

Andromeda shook her head vigorously. "No. Cissy and I spoke of this home just before  _ He _ returned. Before Sirius Black offered it to the Order," she told him, standing and wringing her hands. "This house belonged to the Black family—all of us know of its existence."

 

"Then Bellatrix Lestrange can lead  _ Him _ straight to us!" Hermione exclaimed, her heart beating at an infuriating pace that refused to slow.

 

"No," Andromeda said slowly. "You misunderstand me. It  _ belonged _ to the Black family. It now belongs to Harry. Sirius, Alastor, and Bill all worked to place charms to ensure its safety. Now that it has left the Black lineage, it will only appear to a Black in distress."

 

"And if Bellatrix happens upon it,  _ in distress _ ?" Harry pressed, looking around the room.

 

"She won't. Bellatrix would never come to us if she were in trouble… and the house would not show itself to someone with malicious intent," Andromeda explained, looking down at her kin.

 

"You did not think to tell any of us of your vast knowledge of this house?” Kingsley chided, incensed. “We would never have stationed anyone here if we had known that the house would appear to Draco Malfoy!"

 

"It would not appear to him if he came to kill us. Or if he brought others to kill us!" she retorted, immediately on a defensive edge.

 

The others looked at Malfoy as well, confusion written all over their faces. 

 

"What if it didn't appear to him at all?" Hermione asked aloud.

 

"What do you mean?" Andromeda asked her, sitting next to her nephew on the edge of the couch.

 

"Maybe he was dumped here by a vigilante," Hermione offered to the group, voicing aloud the first reason she could think of as to why Malfoy had appeared at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. "Someone who knew where to find us."

 

"You mean,  _ one of us _ ," Kingsley clarified, looking incredulous of and uncomfortable with the idea.

 

Hermione backed down slightly, pursing her lips together. "Sometimes people do things in desperation. We lost a couple in the last skirmish," she reminded them thickly, her throat closing a fraction as she fought back tears.

 

It was true. Only a month prior, they had encountered a team of Snatchers—prospective Death Eaters whose only goal was to catch Order members or sympathizers, and present them to Voldemort. They had avoided capture, killing both of the men. But they had lost Dennis Creevy and Padma Patil in the skirmish. Kingsley glowered in her direction and Hermione shrank slightly under his scrutiny. "You are accusing your fellow comrades of something rather severe, and I suggest that idea doesn't leave this room.”

 

Harry shot Kingsley a dirty look before he sighed down at Malfoy's half-naked frame. "We need to move him away from here. Get him to St. Mungo's."

 

"If I bring him into the hospital, it will hit the  _ Daily Prophet  _ before daybreak," Kingsley told them.

 

"We should bring him to the Compound," Andromeda stated confidently. "The house appeared to him for a reason. We need to hear his side."

 

"You are biased by your relation," Hermione argued, placing her hands on her hips.

 

"She's right, Hermione," Harry said gently. "Think of everything he could potentially  _ tell us _ ."

 

"And you think he'll just go spilling all of  _ His  _ darkest secrets?" she asked, avoiding saying Voldemort's name for fear of setting off the Taboo.

 

"Aren't you the one who wanted to bring him in and save his life?" Remus questioned, running a hand over his face.

 

"I didn't want him to die," Hermione stated matter-of-factly, suddenly feeling foolish as her warring emotions were openly questioned.

 

"When he wakes, we will interrogate him. If we have to, we can keep him tethered," Kingsley decided.

 

"Shackled? Like an animal?" Andromeda demanded, outraged as she rose from the couch.

 

"Can we just get him to the Compound? We can discuss this as a group tomorrow," Molly suggested. "Everyone is exhausted."

 

"Hermione, Harry, place a hand on him and we'll apparate together. To the oak tree," Remus suggested.

 

Feeling uneasy with the decision to harbor him, even though she had been the one to suggest saving him initially, Hermione placed her hand on Malfoy's shoulder. 

 

"On three," Remus suggested.

 

"Three," Harry said quickly, and they were gone.

 

When they landed, they were in the middle of a field in the Scottish Highlands, blanketed in fresh snow. Thunder rumbled in the distance, announcing a coming rainstorm that promised to wash away the white cover. Malfoy's body levitated over the ground as Remus carved the ancient runic symbol for 'moon warrior' into a knot on the oak tree. He drew his wand across his palm, bringing a pearl of blood forth and placed it over the rune. The knot in the tree began glowing a faint blue and before them, as a mirage being uncovered, rose the Compound.

 

The three levitated Malfoy to the front door, and Harry suggested they could put him in his bed. He offered, "I'll bunk with Ron. I haven't even had enough time in that room to really unpack, anyway."

 

Levitating Malfoy down the corridor where the men's rooms were located, they came to a halt at the very last door. Stepping inside, Harry waved his wand around the room and a few loose items packed themselves back into his trunk. Malfoy's hand slid from his bare abdomen and grazed Hermione's elbow. Startled, she looked up to his face; he had not awoken. Lifting his hand from where it had fallen, the witch tucked it back onto his body. The contact with his skin made her uncomfortable now that the threat of him dying had lessened.

 

"Come on, hurry. This feels creepy," Harry commented, and Remus sighed.

 

They nestled him into the bed and Hermione turned to go. Remus remarked, "We need to keep watch for when he wakes.”

 

"I'll take first round," Harry volunteered, looking thoroughly agitated at the thought of spending any time in the same room as Malfoy. "I'll try not to hex him until  _ after  _ he wakes up."

 

"Ron will sit with you," Remus stated in his most authoritative tone, just as Ron bounded down the corridor toward them.

 

"Oh no, mate. It wasn't my idea to bring him here,” Ron protested with conviction. “I'm not babysitting the little ferret."

 

"Ronald Weasley, you will do as Remus asked of you," Molly scolded as she, too, walked into the room. "I'll be in first thing to check his bandages."

 

"And what if he does wake? And attacks us?" Ron questioned, frowning at his mother.

 

"His wand was broken," Molly reminded him, retrieving the two pieces from within her robe pocket.

 

Ron snapped his mouth shut and plopped down in a chair beside the bed. Harry plucked a paperclip from the desk and transfigured a second chair. Both boys looked comically sullen at their task, and Harry leaned forward and scrubbed a hand over his face. Hermione took one last look of their unwelcome guest before following Remus and Molly out, feeling heavy and nauseous. 

 

"Why don't you go and get cleaned up, dear?" Molly suggested, putting an arm around her shoulders and hugging her to her side.

 

Hermione suddenly felt as though her legs would give out. The last of her adrenaline was wearing off and exhaustion set in. She looked down and saw that her wrists and arms were still caked with blood and she murmured a weak agreement. As she made her way to the bathroom, her legs felt as though they were made of lead while she trudging through the mud. Her heartbeat had slowed only minimally.

 

When she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it for a brief moment. A stifling heat began to settle over the witch, and the vomit that had threatened her earlier rose in her throat, and finally spewed forth. Hermione retched into the toilet, her stomach roiling nauseatingly. True terror began to set in as she thought about how stupid it was that they had a high-ranking member of Voldemort's inner circle resting in their home. They were going to be retaliated against. More people would die unnecessarily, because they had not just let  _ him  _ die. 

 

When she was finished retching, Hermione went to the sink and ran cool water. A glance in the mirror showed her that she looked like something out of a nightmare. Her arms were covered in Malfoy’s blood, save the hands that had dipped into the healing bath when she had placed his arm into it. At some point, she could not remember when, she must have touched her face, as there was a crimson trail there. What had begun as a compassionate moment on the porch outside of Grimmauld Place, an underlying drive to keep him alive, had quickly morphed into a heavy disgust, anguish, and sheer horror. She peeled her clothes off quickly, lighting them ablaze once they were in a pile on the floor.

 

Turning on the taps, she climbed into the shower without giving the water time to warm. The icy stream hit her and immediately, sucking the air from her lungs. She had fought in more than one battle alongside other Order Members, watched others die, performed healing spells on her friends and family. Paranoia set in and so did guilt, as every possible scenario came to the front of her mind. This was Voldemort's way of luring them in. They were planning an attack, and  _ they knew where the Order was. _

 

She scrubbed her skin raw, washing away the blood, long-sullied with Dark Magic, as though just the contact would suddenly taint her. Once water finally grew hot, it became apparent that she had begun crying, only she could not tell where her tears stopped and the shower began. She hoped, with every ounce of her being, that by saving Draco Malfoy's life, she had not brought about all of her friends' deaths.

o-o-o

 

_ A/N: Please review! I am SO excited about this story! Thank you to those of you who read and/or review! And another heartfelt thank you to  _ **_HeartOfAspen_ ** _ for extending her betaing skills and assisting on this chapter. It’s starting to look so shiny and new! _

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to HeartOfAspen, who beta'd for me on this chapter!

Chapter 3: 

Draco felt his eyes beginning to flicker behind his lids, his subconscious being ripped from its deep slumber. Light filtered into the room around him and he felt inherently warm. Someone was fussing over his arm, which felt shockingly numb, save for his fingertips. Tilting his head toward the individual was a monumental task, as every inch of his body screamed achingly. In fact, he was no longer sure if the warm tingles all over his body were from the warmth of the room, or because he was febrile. 

The events of the day before came filtering into his mind, piece-by-piece. The sight of his parents’ blood running crimson over his mother’s enchanted winter roses. Carving his Mark away from his flesh and nearly dying as he bled out on the stairs of a home his mother had sworn would protect him, no matter the circumstances. He let out an unintelligible groan as the person messing about his arm pushed his hair away from his face. 

“I know, I know it hurts,” came the kindly voice of a woman—a voice that seemed vaguely familiar in a remote part of his brain. “Hush now, I’m almost finished.”

Draco let his eyes flutter open and he came face to face with a plump woman dressed in a patched apron over a shabby, shapeless dress. Her shock of ginger hair, streaked here and there with grey, gave her identity away. Molly Prewett Weasley. He attempted opening his mouth to say something, but a flash of pain reverberated through his skull, causing his teeth to vibrate as his jaw began to jerk in a violent chatter. The Weasley matriarch was calmly and efficiently cleansing his arm, which he caught sight of for the first time since he had wounded himself.

Red, striated muscle hung in the open, tendons and arteries loose and visible. The sight made his stomach lurch violently; he turned his head just in time to vomit into a bucket, which seemed to have been placed by his bedside for just such an occasion. Mrs. Weasley stopped her ministrations on his arm and pushed his hair away from his forehead as he leaned back into the pillow. “You’re fighting an infection—someone really did a number on your arm, dear. Just a few more drops of dittany and I’ll wrap it back up.”

Unable to formulate a verbal coherent thought, he simply groaned in agony. The feeling of Dark Magic coursing through him was ever-present, as it had since he had first taken the Mark. But with the unsightly blemish gone from his arm, the acidic feeling had dissipated some. His eyes clenched shut, his mouth still shook violently as he fought to clamp his jaw closed. 

“Hermione, please go and get Kingsley. And some warm tea and biscuits for Draco.”

_ Hermione? Granger?  _ Draco’s eyes opened as he tilted his head at an impossibly agitating angle to watch a tell-tale bushy ponytail exit through an open door. His eyes were leaking with the raw pain searing through his entire body, but he looked to Molly Weasley. She pulled a roll of fresh white bandages from her apron pocket and waved her wand at his arm to hold it upright while she used both of her hands to wrap his wound. She tutted and gave him a sympathetic frown. 

“Good as new. Kingsley will want to speak with you, but I’ll try to keep it brief—you need to sleep off the fever.”

Why on earth was this woman being so  _ kind  _ to him? Draco knew he did not deserve her charity, nor did he feel proper accepting it so readily. But he was groggy and bleary-eyed as Granger reentered the room holding a tray and accompanied by Kingsley Shacklebolt, the ex-Minister for Magic. The tall, dark-skinned man crossed his arms as he came to a halt by Draco’s bedside. The wizard was likely trying to appear imposing and intimidating, but as Draco had stared  _ true _ horror right in its snake-nosed face, he simply closed his eyes and groaned once more. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said, his tone more of a sneer than a greeting. “You have a  _ lot  _ of talking to do.”

Draco simply nodded his head once. He knew they would want to thoroughly interrogate him—he was a defecting Death Eater and they had no reason to trust in him whatsoever. By now, Mrs. Weasley had finished with his arm and had lowered it back down to rest over the blanket she had laid across his stomach. It occurred to him then that he could not move his fingers, though he could still feel them in a detached sort of way. A panic set in. He had maimed himself beyond repair, and he was still  _ alive.  _ Wandless… a poor, homeless pauper who would rely on his rivals to supply him with his necessities. When had his life come to this?

Opening his eyes, his gaze fell on a terrified-looking Hermione Granger standing beside Mrs. Weasley, the tray still in her hands. 

“Can you sit up?” she questioned, glancing at her two companions as if expecting retribution for the not _ -completely  _ unkind tone of her voice.

Draco tried to swallow, but found that his throat felt all scratchy and burning, as though he had had wild cotton stuffed down it wicking away all of his saliva. His eyes roved over the teacup on Granger’s tray and he used his free hand and the heels of his feet to push himself upright enough to be able to drink. The others were regarding him with an exhausted wariness. The blanket he had been covered with fell to his waist and he was acutely aware of his chest coming into plain view.

After seeing his raw and bloodied arm, the scars that scattered across his torso should have come as no shock. Still, Granger gasped, Mrs. Weasley’s frown deepened, and Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow. 

“Drink,” he managed to rasp aloud. Granger seemed almost startled by the noise.

Had he not been in unbearable pain, Draco would have smirked at his effect on her. She was twitchy and hesitant as she lowered the tray before him, watching intently he lifted his good hand and took the cup. His hand shook so greatly that he had to set it back on the tray before he could even take his first sip. 

Meanwhile, behind his audience, a third witch appeared in the doorway-one that was startlingly familiar. Draco winced at the striking resemblance she bore to her sister. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to him, the woman retrieved the teacup from the tray and said, “Well, don’t just stand there. He needs to drink something.”

He looked up at his aunt—the one with whom he’d had only had very minimal contact in his life, always behind his father’s back and under the hushed cover of darkness. Gently, she held the cup to his lips. Though it wounded his pride, he bent his face forward to take a small sip. The warm liquid felt like fire sliding down his already-raw throat and his vision blurred at the sudden, intrusive pain. Andromeda frowned as he leaned back against the rickety headboard and simply stared at her.

It was the first time he’d really had the opportunity to meet his aunt in broad daylight. Though her features were startlingly close to Bellatrix’s, there was a softer edge to them. Crow’s feet decorated the corners of her eyes and she had visible laugh lines around her mouth, despite that she was currently frowning. While Bellatrix’s wild mane of black locks flowed freely from her haphazard pile of curls, Andromeda’s was pulled into a sleek, low chignon similar to the way his mother wore hers. Her eyes, the same crystal cobalt that all of the Black witches sported, bored into him. Draco instinctively knew she was silently imploring him, probing him. Casting his eyes downward, he was unable to look into eyes that were so similar to his mother’s. 

Andromeda put her hand over the fingers of his wounded arm, and softly asked, “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

Simply nodding once, his gaze fell down to the teacup in her shaking hand. She shed no tears for her fallen sister, and for that he was grateful. 

“Your mother?” Shacklebolt asked, his tone strict and confrontational. “What about Lucius?”

“Dead,” Draco rasped once more. “And Astoria.”

At the mention of his wife, Granger and Mrs. Weasley exchanged a look, while his aunt frowned ever more deeply. 

“How?” Shacklebolt pressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Dark Lord, slit throats,” his voice was weak and feeble. A few of his words ran together, unable as he was to form a complete sentence. Andromeda’s hand went over her mouth and Draco felt his stomach lurch grotesquely once more. 

“How did you find this place?” the other wizard bluntly asked. Andromeda shot him a look that told Draco she had already answered this question.

“My mother. Blacks in trouble. House would appear,” he tried, his throat scalding and his entire being throbbing painfully as the Dark Magic continued to leave him like a demon being exorcized.

“I’m not understanding. Does this mean that all of his followers know where to find us?” Mrs. Weasley asked, her eyes darting toward the window as though a Death Eater’s face might be pressed against the glass. 

Draco shook his head feebly. “Address in coat. Emergencies only.”

He wished they would stop questioning him for five minutes. His trachea felt dangerously close to closing up on him completely. 

“You had an address to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix hidden in a coat, in case of emergencies? And this house will appear to a Black in need? So, how do we know Bellatrix did not share in this same information? How do we know she is not the one who planted you on the doorstep as bait?”

“I’ve already told you, Kingsley. The house would not appear to anyone with foul intentions,” Andromeda spoke up. Draco nodded once, lifting his good hand a fraction of an inch to point at her, agreeing with her statement.

“Will tell you all. Get Ollivander,” he told them, his breathing becoming labored and shallow. 

At this precise moment, Harry Potter waltzed into the door and Draco dropped his head back against the headboard and groaned audibly once more.  _ Of course  _ Potter would be here. But where  _ was  _ here? A glance out of the open curtains told Draco he was not in the heart of London any more. Potter appeared startled to see him alive, let alone awake. “Oh—he’s up. I’ll go get Ron!”

“That’s not necessary, Harry,” Shacklebolt said, holding up a single hand to stop him. Turning back to Draco, he queried, “Why do we need to get Ollivander?”

Draco thought back to the task he had been assigned—which he now knew had been a diversion so that the Dark Lord could murder his parents, unencumbered. He had been ordered to question an old, German wizard about a particular wand... and Draco knew the Dark Lord did nothing if not for good reason. “Dark Lord. Wand. Germany.”

Energy now spent, Draco sank back into the covers of the bed. Though his attention was on high alert, his head was spinning. These people were not his friends, though he knew inherently that they also would not hex him without good reason. He was not in danger of receiving an errant Cruciatus Curse here, and he allowed that thought to comfort him as he pulled the covers up to his chin. Molly Weasley pulled a vial from her apron and uncorked it before holding it to his lips. 

“Pain potion,” she said simply, and he allowed the rancid liquid to be dumped down his throat, relishing the cool feel as it washed through his veins.

“I have more questions for you, Malfoy,” Shacklebolt told him, glaring at his audacity in lying back down.

Andromeda stood and squared up against the ex-Minister. “He needs to rest. He almost died last night. Send for Ollivander and get him here. You can question Draco when he awakens.”

“Andy—don’t you need to be getting back to Tonks and Remus? Someone needs to watch over Teddy,” Shacklebolt answered coolly before turning to Potter. “Harry, you and Ron send a Patronus to Ollivander. Tell him it’s urgent and that his life may be in danger. If he doesn’t respond, stop at nothing to find him. Hermione, you and Molly trade off and watch over Malfoy until he wakes up again.”

Potter nodded and left the room swiftly, grateful to have some action to dive headfirst into, no doubt. Draco bit back a breathy scoff as he closed his eyes. 

“Poor, dear. Lost his wife and parents,” he heard Mrs. Weasley say to Granger as the two witches walked toward the corner of the room. 

“He’s a  _ Death Eater _ , Molly,” Granger’s hushed whisper assaulted his ears.

“Yes, and who was the one so valiantly trying to save the Death Eater’s life last night? No matter who he is or what he’s done, he’s just a boy, no older than Ron, who has seen more in his life than anyone should. He’s just lost his family,” the older witch calmly argued.

In his disoriented state, Draco barely heard anything besides her first question. Granger had tried to save him? The memory of himself from fourth year, hexing her teeth to grow uncontrollably, flashed to the surface of his groggy mind. “Your teeth.”

He had not meant to say it aloud, and did not realize that he had, until Granger’s voice stilled and she huffed, “I beg your pardon?”

Her question nestled into his brain, but he did not answer her or repeat himself. Sleep claimed him once more.

o-o-o

A cold, damp feeling overtook Draco from under his bedding and he turned his head toward the open door. He felt stronger than he had that morning, though his fever felt as strong as ever. Granger was sitting in a stiff chair on the opposite side of the room with her nose in a book, though she did not appear to actually be reading, as her eyes were not moving. 

Huffing at the loss of motor control in his left arm, Draco let out an exasperated sigh. The sound of him stirring caused Granger’s eyes to dart to him; she was nestled in a thick blanket to combat the frigid air in the room. Reminded of the reason he had woken in the first place, he grumpily muttered, “’s so cold.”

“Sorry not to be more  _ accommodating _ , Malfoy. But you see, you  _ stink _ . I thought a little fresh air might do you some good,” she retorted, waving her wand toward the window to snap it shut. 

“Or hypothermia will kill you slowly. Which we’re not entirely opposed to,” Potter’s voice sprang from the corridor beyond his door. A moment later, his head poked inside. “Sorry, ‘Mione. We heard your voice.”

Granger waved him away and gestured to the bed. “He’s all yours for the interrogating. I’m going to see if Molly needs any help with dinner.”

At the mentioning of food, Draco’s traitorous belly gave a grumble and Potter’s eyes shot to him. “Ollivander is here. Kingsley is on his way. I don’t know what you’re going on about—a wizard and Germany and a wand  _ he’s  _ interested in.”

“Not just a wand,” Draco told him, growing irritated with the narrow worldview Potter was displaying.

The bespectacled man furrowed his brow and sighed, taking a seat in the chair Granger had vacated, his wand resting against his knee. “Why are you here, Malfoy? After all this time? You’ve never given us any indication you wished to defect. You led the Death Eaters into Hogwarts.”

Draco bristled and ignored his accusations, however true they may be. “I have nothing to lose. Isn’t that what orphans do best? Try valiantly to save the world? You’ve been attempting it for years now.”

“You expect us to believe that you were only a Death Eater because mummy and daddy were?” Potter sneered in disgust. 

“My mother was  _ not  _ a Death Eater!” Draco raged vehemently, immediately regretting it as his chest throbbed and his lungs felt as though they would collapse. 

Potter seemed to get a cruel satisfaction from his discomfort as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, his knee bobbing. “She certainly married one.”

Opening his mouth to retort, Draco wanted to say something that would cut Potter down as much as the wizard seemed to enjoy doing to him now, but Shacklebolt entered with Ollivander at that precise moment. The elderly wandmaker wrung his hands anxiously as he slowly approached Draco’s bed. Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes, though only because he knew it would renew his thumping headache. “The Minister says you have something to tell me? About a wand?”

Draco’s eyes scanned the elderly man, hunched and defeated-looking as his ancient eyes pleaded with him to just say his piece and leave him be. “The Dark Lord—”

The others bristled at hearing such a title of respect come out of his mouth, and he relished the discomfort it brought them. “The Dark Lord sent me… to Nurmengard, to interrogate an old man about a very specific wand.”

Draco’s voice was quiet as he attempted to regain his composure and not wince too much in the face of his rivals. Ollivander’s brow furrowed and he ran a finger over his wet lips. “What kind of wand?”

“An exceptionally powerful one. It once belonged,” Draco heaved a heavy breath, “to the wand maker, Gregorovitch? And then belonged to Gellert Grindelwald—whom Theodore Nott and I interrogated.”

Ollivander’s features darkened and understanding came over him nearly immediately. 

“What is it, Garrick?” Kingsley asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Shrugging his hand away, the wandmaker searched Draco’s eyes once more. “Those are only myths—legends.”

“Well, I went on a very  _ real  _ mission to interrogate an aging and dying Grindelwald about the whereabouts of that very wand,” Draco replied, his head feeling woozy once more.

“What wand? What is he talking about, Garrick?” Potter asked aloud, inserting himself where he was not really welcome or needed.

Ollivander turned his gaze away from Draco to face the others, his ashen face and a spooked look making him appear even more ancient. “The Elder Wand. It is said to be the most effective and powerful wand ever to be made. The owner of that wand would be near invincible.”

“No wonder the Dark Lord wanted it so badly,” Draco shrugged before turning his attention to the aging man. “You need to lie low for a while, Ollivander. If he had me travel to  _ Germany  _ to hunt down Grindelwald about a  _ wand _ , it stands to reason that he will hunt down  _ wandmakers  _ next.”

Shacklebolt begrudgingly agreed. “Garrick, I want you to go with Harry and Ron. They’ll take you to Grimmauld Place, where you can get a hot bath and a decent meal.”

Now appearing borderline hysterical, the wandmaker’s vision bounced from Shacklebolt to Potter, before glancing briefly down at Draco. 

“Get Remus on your way,” Shacklebolt added to Potter, who nodded and placed a hand on Ollivander’s back and led him gently from the room.

“As for you,” Shacklebolt turned his attention to Draco, staring at him as though he were an unwanted pest. “You need to start talking.”

“I  _ need  _ a wand,” Draco told him, feeling his petulance returning.

“I’ll have Garrick obtain a new wand for you,  _ if  _ you prove to be useful,” the man replied, pulling up a chair next to the bed to sit in. 

Draco’s body was fighting exhaustion again, but he knew he would not be allowed to rest anymore before the questioning began. 

“How did you find Grimmauld Place?” he asked once more.

Draco finally allowed his eyes to roll at the repetitive line of questioning. Insolently, he drawled, “When I was thirteen, my mother handed me a slip of parchment and told me that if I ever found myself in need of a place to go, to go to that address. I hid it in an old suit-coat pocket until yesterday,”

“What happened to your arm?” Shacklebolt asked next, and Draco swallowed thickly.

Remus Lupin, looking possibly more haggard than Draco felt, limped in and stood behind Shacklebolt’s chair. “Don’t mind me. You were saying—your arm?”

“Something that should have happened a long time ago,” was all Draco offered, not wishing to divulge that particular detail just yet.

“Who did it?” Lupin questioned, his eyes roaming over the crisp white linens of the bandages.

“A foolish man,” again, not an untruthful answer.

“How do we know that you were not brought here by someone, perhaps even one of our own, as a Trojan Horse of sorts?” Lupin asked.

Draco’s brow furrowed. What on earth did horses have to do with this? “Do you not trust your own people, then?” he managed to ask, a faint sneer gracing his lips through a grimace.

“The Order has expanded greatly in the last couple of years. It would be impossible to understand the inner workings of every single member,” Shacklebolt supplied. “Answer the question. How do we know you are not here to lure the others to our Headquarters?”

Draco’s head gave a violent throb, nearly blinding him for a moment. Feeling his head lull slightly, he breathed in a deep, ragged breath. “You don’t. But, as I’ve told you, I have nothing to lose any longer. My entire family is dead, and I have angered the Dark Lord beyond redemption.”

“How?” Lupin asked, his face contorting into confusion.

“By disobeying his orders one too many times,” Draco answered simply. “I have nothing—no home or vault to speak of. Those were willingly given to the Dark Lord when he first rose to power. My entire family is dead. My wand is broken. I  _ feel  _ like I’m dying. Why the fuck do you think I’m here?” 

Shacklebolt’s face turned stony as he mulled those thoughts over in his mind. 

Draco realized then how differently he had been trained from the men surrounding him, how warped his thought process must truly be if they couldn’t fathom his reasoning for joining them. The bloodlust he felt now was all-encompassing, driving his every thought. “Revenge,” he finally answered too many moments later.

Both Shacklebolt and Lupin looked up to him and then to each other. “You want retribution for the deaths of your family? How do we know anything you are telling us is true?”

“Veritaserum? Watching my memories? I don’t know. You’re the interrogators,” Draco retorted angrily, waving between the two of them. 

“Why should we keep you around?” Lupin asked him honestly, his face set in what appeared to be a permanent grimace. 

It occurred to Draco, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Remus Lupin was a werewolf and the full moon was a mere three days away. “I can tell you everything I know about the Dark Lord, his plans, and his followers.”

“And after you’ve told us everything? Why shouldn’t we throw you in Azkaban?” Shacklebolt inquired, leaning back in his chair. 

Draco scoffed, glancing out the window at the sprawling countryside beyond. “You and I both know Azkaban is not what it used to be. It’s steadily falling more and more under the Dark Lord’s control and he’s been incarcerating innocents.”

Shacklebolt seemed discomfited that Draco had called his bluff so readily. 

“I want to fight,” he pressed. “I want to kill that bastard with my own two hands.”

“Why didn’t you do that when you had the chance? He lived in your home,” Lupin suggested, waving his hand as though it should have been common sense.

“Yes. A single rogue Death Eater against the most powerful Dark Wizard known to man and his legion of followers. Shouldn’t have been too hard,” Draco quipped sarcastically.

Shacklebolt sighed and sat back in his chair, eyeing him with unmasked irritation. “Tomorrow morning, we bring in a couple of Aurors and a healthy supply of Veritaserum brewed by one of the best potioneers in Europe. I want a recounting of your entire history, from the day you took the Mark to this very moment. And  _ if  _ we deem you safe enough, I will have Ollivander supply you with a wand.”

As Draco nodded numbly, there was a soft knock at the door.  Granger was standing, uncertain, in the doorway, tugging at the sleeve of a jumper that looked two sizes too large for her. Next to her, levitated the same tray from earlier with a steaming bowl of something on it, along with a cool glass of water which made his cotton-dry mouth salivate. “Molly wanted to let you know that dinner is ready in the dining hall.”

Standing, Shacklebolt pointed a finger in his direction and promised, “Tomorrow.”

It felt more like a threat than a guarantee. Draco nodded once, his lips pressed into a tight line. A moment later, the two wizards took their leave, though Granger lingered outside his door for a moment longer. Finally, she seemed to embrace her inner Gryffindor courage and defiance and she stepped into his room. “I don’t know  _ how _ , but I’ve gotten stuck on spoon-feeding duty.”

“How lovely,” Draco spat, turning to look out of the window.

“I also brought your bag up to you, after it was  _ thoroughly  _ checked by three different Order members,” she claimed, the bag following her into the room like an errant puppy. 

The only things of his within the bag were clothing, a pack of Muggle cigarettes (which he was desperate for), and a framed photograph of himself and his parents the summer before third year. But for some reason, he felt defiled further. He knew he deserved it—he was on enemy territory and he had brought all of their doubt and trepidation on himself. 

Frowning deeply, he clicked his jaw as a chill swept over him. As she pulled up a chair next to him and set the tray beside him on the bed, Draco was viciously reminded of his fever. Throwing his guards up, he demanded forcefully, “Have fun rummaging through my things, did you?”

Beside him, Granger slowly began stirring what appeared to be beef stew in the steaming bowl. “I found it curious.”

“Curious?” he charged, finding some of the old venom in his voice.

Raising her eyes to him, he noticed her bottom lip was between her teeth. “You have a picture of your parents, but not your wife.”

_ Perceptive _ , he thought to himself.  _ A little too perceptive _ . He shrugged indifferently. “It was a marriage of convenience. Or so the Dark Lord believed.”

“I don’t understand,” she said slowly, lifting the spoon with a large lump of potato, toward his face. 

“You don’t need to,” he fumed, adamantly refusing to take the food off of the eating utensil. 

“Why do you have to be such a prick? You showed up, wanting  _ our  _ help. We didn’t seek you out,” she reminded him grimly.

Draco had scraped together just enough pride to lower his good hand to the bowl and grasp the spoon. He was left-handed and found the task to be slightly more difficult than he had anticipated, but he refused to be fed by anyone else after the pitiful display that morning with the teacup. As he brought the spoon to his lips, a little of the stew splashed down his front and burned his skin. 

“This is ridiculous,” Granger told him, patting his bare chest with a cloth napkin in agitation. “If you’re going to be stubborn, at least sit at the desk so you can lean over.”

She removed the tray and bowl from his bedside and, with a flick of her wand, it was on the barren desk. Draco glowered at her, knowing he would not be strong enough to rise from the bed on his own. Why couldn’t she just leave him be, to spill his food down his front and splash cool water down his chin in peace? Why must she  _ hover _ ?

Leaning forward slightly, his muscles felt weak and decayed as he tried to lower his feet to the floor beside the bed. Granger’s eyes flickered to his left arm, tucked deeply into his bare abdomen, as he held onto her shoulder and tried to push himself up. Her dainty hand caught him beneath the elbow and kept him from falling back. With a great heave, she was able to get him upright. As the blankets fell away from him, Draco was painfully aware that he wore only a pair of boxer-briefs. Where  _ had  _ his clothing gone?

“Once you’re done eating, I’ll get one of the men to help you into the bath. Maybe then you can wash away some of that foul odor,” she told him, his arm over her shoulder as her petite frame struggled to hold him upright.

Once she had managed to get him to the desk chair, he collapsed into it, breathing hard as though he had just run a marathon. 

“We gave you blood replenishing potions. I don’t understand why you’re still so weak almost a full day later,” she told him, sitting on the edge of the desk next to him.

Catching his breath, Draco ran his right hand over his face before gesturing to his limp left arm. “The Dark Magic is leaving my body. Trying to find  _ something  _ to cling to before it’s expelled.”

“Is it painful?” Granger asked, looking down at where his untrained right hand was wrapping around the spoon handle once more.

“I’ve felt worse,” was his short reply.

The first bite of beef stew slid languidly down his throat and his stomach growled in happy agreement. The thought that it could be poisoned hovered at the back of his mind, but he found he was too hungry and too fatigued to care. Death, honestly, would be such a sweet release. 

Granger put her hands on the edge of the desk beside either of her hips and Draco, shamed and abashed at being so helpless, stared, transfixed at her gnawed thumbnail. “You can go have dinner with the others. Send someone in after. Not Potter or Weasley.”

“Harry and Ron are far braver and more mature than you give them credit for,” she replied. There was an edge to her voice, and he noticed she was anxiously crossing, and then uncrossing, her ankles. 

“Yes, well, doesn’t mean I want to get all chummy and compare prick sizes, does it?” he retorted in agitation.

“You’re incorrigible. And crass,” she muttered, snorting her disgust and rising to leave the room.

“Don’t forget dashing and a devastatingly good lay,” he quipped, tucking into his stew once more.

Granger let out a groan of pure vexation behind him and his mouth formed into the smallest of smirks. He was here as a mutually beneficial arrangement. The Order, he had no doubt, would take him in and give him shelter, and he, in turn, would supply them with more information about the goings-on in the Dark Lord’s army than they had ever dreamt of. He  _ was  _ grateful that they had not dumped him out on his arse on Grimmauld Place, though he was certain that his Aunt Andromeda and Molly Weasley were the only reasons that still had yet to happen. 

When he had finished eating, he sat slumped over the desk. The throbbing ache in his body came back in full force as the pain potions Mrs. Weasley had given him that morning wore off completely. He watched out of his window as the last of the sunlight sank below the mountains. Completely alone for the first time since he had fled, Draco desperately tried not to think of the scene with his parents, what it had felt like to drag a dagger across his wife’s neck. His energy was nearly spent and he did not fancy dragging emotions into the already-hectic mindset he was currently dwelling in. Just as he thought Granger had forgotten to send someone and he was going to have to try and Apparate into the bed, Arthur Weasley knocked at his door.

Set and rational, the man’s face was stony. He was not there to be his friend, but Draco could tell he would not be unkind either, at least until his entire side of the story was out. How the Weasley parents could put aside their biases and grudges to welcome a deadly stranger, when their own children wanted to rip him limb-from-limb, was unfathomable to him. 

“I understand you are in need of the lavatory and bath?”

Draco looked up at the worn face of the Weasley patriarch and huffed. “Granger has accused me, not once, but twice, of being particularly malodorous. So, I guess that means I should bathe.”

“It’s all of that rotten, acrid Dark Magic,” the wizard replied, running a hand over the balding top of his head. “I suppose it’s not too pleasant for you right now.”

Taking the hand that was offered him, he begrudgingly answered, “I feel like a herd of hippogriffs had stampeded over me, discovered I was still breathing, and then tried a second time to kill me.”

o-o-o

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: This story assumes that the events of Half-Blood Prince did not necessarily happen, and what DID, happened during their seventh year. None of the events in Deathly Hallows have taken place yet. I realize the timeline is wrong canonically. That’s why this entire story is an AU. I am making up a good majority of stuff using the bare bones provided by JKR. Beta love to HeartOfAspen!

Chapter 4:

Hermione sat alongside Malfoy’s bed early the next morning, relieving Harry and Ron of their night watch. Luna was in the corner making two cups of tea and humming, sharing the duties of babysitting a slumbering Death Eater. Inhaling deeply, Hermione could smell sausages cooking in the kitchens across the courtyard, and her stomach grumbled. The pungency of the sleeping man had tapered off significantly after his bath, and for that she was grateful. As Luna remained preoccupied, Hermione took a few spare moments to look at the pitiful man lying in the bed before her.

She had not set eyes on the wizard one-on-one since Dumbledore had been killed just before Christmas in her seventh year. Malfoy appeared matured. There was no softness to his features; his mouth was set into a grimace of pain as his jaw clicked and clenched in his sleep. Lines creased his forehead, with one running between his brows, and she assumed that he had not led a life of luxury in the past three years. At the sight of his bare chest peeking out from under thick blankets, Hermione shuddered as she recalled the deep, horrific scars that marred nearly every inch of his porcelain skin. She felt bile rise in her throat as she peered at his bandaged arm, where a bright, vermillion stain had begun to bloom as he slept.

Malfoy whimpered slightly in his sleep and then sighed, turning his face away from her. In the early rays of morning light, she saw a pale pink scar running along one side of his throat, about as long as her pinky finger. It looked like a crudely healed knife wound and she wondered just what he had been through to mark his body in such a way.

Shaking the thoughts from her head with a quick huff, she reminded herself that he was a Death Eater—those could be defensive wounds from all of his victims, for all she knew. The memory from two nights prior rushed to the forefront of her brain and her heart quickened as she remembered how desperate she had been to save his life. Her emotions had gotten the better of her, her morals leading her to bring him into their lives. Now that he was here, she had done nothing but ponder the situation, wondering if she had made the right decision or led them all into certain death.

Clutching the sheets tightly, Malfoy clawed at the soft fabric. Hermione lifted her hand, ready to place it over his in the same soothing manner she would have used if it were Harry or Ron. Catching herself, she quickly tucked her hand under her thigh and sat back in her chair.

Luna—always _far_ too perceptive—brought her a warm cup of tea and sat in the chair beside hers. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Having him here. Not quite sure if he’s evil incarnate or a sad soul, needing of love and acceptance?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at Luna’s optimism and nodded. “My mother always told me my empathy would get me into trouble one day. I just hope it hasn’t caused trouble for all of us.”

It felt good to voice her worries to someone who would not judge her actions, but her heart. Luna looked to Malfoy, and then to Hermione. “I feel as though he’s here because he wants to be. He’s slept for nearly thirty hours since we got him here. It’s as though he hasn’t slept in an eternity. He probably hasn’t felt this safe in years.”

Hermione snorted, causing Malfoy to stir before he resettled. “Yes, and now he finds comfort in a house full of people who hate him and would love nothing more than to string him up by his nostrils.”

“People always accused me of having my nose in the air, anyway,” came the hoarse voice of the man in question.

A beam of sunlight fell across his face as he turned his head back to look at the two witches. For the first time in nearly decade since she had first had the displeasure of meeting Malfoy, Hermione realized what a strange, steely shade of grey his eyes were.

“Can you just go get the Aurors? Get this interrogation over with.”

“I’ll go,” Luna offered, floating airily away from them as she left the room in search of Tonks, Kingsley, and Arthur.

Hermione crossed her arms and decided to stare at the wall in front of her, though she could feel his eyes boring into the side of her face. When Malfoy cleared his throat, she could tell it was scratchy and dry. He waved toward the tepid water sitting on the nightstand. He struggled to sit up but managed to fall back heavily against the headboard.

“Not so keen to save me now, eh, Granger?” he taunted dryly as he used his good hand to reach across his body and retrieve the glass.

Bristling, she groaned internally as she realized that he must have heard Molly’s comment from the day before. As her features steeled, she looked in his direction, her lips pursed. “You know, I regret my decision a little more every time you open your mouth.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, resting his head back against the wood. “Yes, this is such a joy for me. To show up—a lowly pauper with no home, no money, no family and no dignity. But, please, do expound on why I’ve ruined your day—though I’ve been asleep for nearly, what did Lovegood say? Thirty hours since arriving here?”

“Your presence here has put all of us in danger. If what you are saying is true and you’re defecting, _he’ll_ send the others to look for you. If you’re lying, then you will bring them to us anyway.”

“Then why didn’t you just let me die on the porch at Grimmauld Place then?” he asked, shooting her a dirty look.

Clamping her jaw shut, Hermione knew did not readily have an answer to that, even in her own mind. Her emotions and adrenaline had driven her actions, not her brain. His mouth curved into the shadow of a smile and she looked away from him, unnerved by the sight.

“That’s what I thought. The Order’s very own little princess couldn’t live with herself if she let someone unarmed and defenseless die, no matter if that individual is a known Death Eater. You act first and think later, and that’s the problem with all of you Gryffindors.”

“We’ve been out of school three years now. We’re more than our former houses,” she huffed, refusing to give in to him.

“Are we? Because I was under the impression that the hat chose our houses based on our inherent core beliefs and personalities. I’m every bit as cunning and ambitious and underhanded as I was ten years ago, Granger. And you are every bit as foolishly courageous and empathetic as you were. Your mother was right—your empathetic nature is going to get you hurt one day,” Malfoy sneered, eyeing her up and down in a manner that made Hermione wholly uncomfortable.

“Is this how you treat every person who saves your life?” she asked, bitingly.

“We’re on the cusp of a full-blown War. I know things about what’s to come that would make even _your_ ugly mop curl even further. I don’t like you, and I’m _certainly_ not going to bow down and kiss your arse for saving my life. But I _am_ grateful—to you, to Molly and Andy, Arthur, Potter. Everyone. Without you all, I _would_ be dead. And though I don’t give a hippogriff’s left testicle about my life anymore, I do want to stay alive long enough to see that sorry sack of niffler shit die a most horrific death. And, I, in turn, will show you all how grateful I am by feeding you every bit of information I possibly can,” Malfoy replied, his voice gruff but his words calculated and precise.

“You’re just using us as a means to achieve your desired end,” she accused, picking at a loose thread on her jumper.

“Tell me again how we’re more than our former houses. That is textbook Slytherin behavior. And last time I checked, my desired end aligned with your desired end,” he pointed out, giving her an almost incredulous glare.

Hermione glowered in his direction, her mind running double-time as she sized him up. He was challenging her every statement; no one in the Order could match her biting tongue in such a way. Frustration coursed through her, but she was spared responding as the interrogation team entered the room. Only Arthur’s features were stilled. Kingsley looked ready to pounce on Malfoy if only he would provoke him, and Tonks was eyeing her cousin warily, little more than a stranger with similar blood lineage.

“Malfoy,” Kingsley greeted gruffly. “Hermione, why don’t you go assist Molly? She’s making breakfast for everyone.”

“No,” Malfoy said firmly. “She stays.”

Eyes growing wide, Hermione looked in baffled shock between the ailing Death Eater and the former Minister for Magic. Tonks narrowed her eyes, the tips of her hair turning red as she regarded him with disgust.

“Why?” Arthur asked, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder protectively.

“Because during the course of the interrogation, I will have things to say—some of which pertain to her,” Malfoy stated simply.

Kingsley stared him down, but Malfoy did not back down one iota. It was like watching two tomcats fighting in an alleyway, both vying to be the alpha male. “Fine, Hermione, sit at the desk. Tonks, the Veritaserum.”

Tonks reached into the inner pocket of her robes and retrieved a small vial of clear liquid. As she handed it to Kingsley, she begrudgingly admitted, “This is the last of our supply.”

Malfoy waved his healthy hand. “I can brew you more.”

Hermione looked at him as though he had sprouted a second and third head. In the dark recesses of her mind, she recalled that he was quite brilliant at Potions, but she had her doubts that he could brew something that complicated so readily that he casually waved off the idea.

“You know how to brew Truth Serum?” Arthur asked him, looking equally perturbed.

“You don’t? Are you still using legally obtained potions instead of making your own?” Malfoy asked, looking directly at Hermione as he spoke. “The Dark Lord’s got hold of the Ministry by the bollocks now—you’ll never get ahold of rare potions again.”

Something in the way he spoke made it seem as though he was challenging her once more. As though he were taunting her for not being as adept at brewing potions as he. She rolled her eyes, refusing to allow herself to be agitated by his digs.

Malfoy looked from Hermione to Kingsley. “Let me cultivate a greenhouse and I can brew you any potion your heart desires.”

“Let’s just discuss the matter at hand, for now,” Kingsley said firmly, uncorking the vial and holding the stopper in one hand and the vial in the other. “You will drink the serum and then Arthur will place his wand firmly against your head. I know you are a trained Legilimens. Through your connection to his wand, you will feed the memories of the events we speak of to him. The Veritaserum will not allow you to tamper with memories in any manipulative fashion.”

“Let’s get started, then,” Malfoy told him, his drawl slow and indolent. “The only thing I request we not speak of is the injury to my arm. What happened to me is not relevant to my history or to you all. I have shown you respect, and I would appreciate that respect reciprocated.”

Kingsley regarded him with a steely glance, calculating the wizard’s words. Ever the peacekeeper, Arthur voiced, “I think that’s a fair request.”

Stiffly, Kingsley nodded once. Hermione was in bemused awe over Malfoy’s attitude. Even after admitting that he had nothing left in this world, he still had an agitating cockiness about him that made her want to drive her fist into his perfect teeth. She watched closely as he swallowed down the contents of the vial and then looked expectantly at the three interrogating wizards.

Tonks and Kingsley sat down beside the bed and exchanged a glance. Arthur went around the other side and placed his wand to Malfoy’s temple. _“Legilimens!”_

Malfoy’s eyes momentarily grew wide before he went still. Kingsley took this as his cue to proceed with the investigation. “Why don’t we start with when you took the Dark Mark.”

“The summer before my seventh year. My father was proud, but my mother cried like a loon.” Malfoy’s voice was monotone and contained no trace of any emotion whatsoever. The others did not seem unnerved by his calm demeanor, but Hermione could feel herself growing uneasy, knowing what kind of questions were to come.

Tonks tilted her head to one side, staring at her cousin. “Why did you take the Mark?”

“I thought I had no other choice. The Dark Lord repeatedly threatened to kill my parents. A lot of good it did me—they died by his hand anyway,” Malfoy replied, his face showing no trace of sadness.

“Why didn’t you come to us immediately?” Tonks asked. “My mother would have taken you in and tried to save Lucius and Narcissa.”

“It wasn’t that simple. Or, it didn’t feel that simple at the time. Everything was spiraling out of control and the Dark Lord was breathing down my neck at every turn.”

Kingsley’s eyebrow twitched. “Tell us about the events leading up to Christmas of 1997.”

Malfoy’s cold stare flickered as he blinked and took a deep breath. “I came upon a pair of Vanishing Cabinets—one in the Room of Hidden Things at Hogwarts, and the other sitting at Borgin and Burke’s in Knockturn Alley. After my first two attempts to kill Dumbledore did not succeed, the Dark Lord wanted me to devise a way to get a select group of Death Eaters into the castle.”

“What were your other two attempts?” the ex-Minister asked.

Hermione looked from Malfoy’s stony features to Arthur, knowing full well that one of the attempts had nearly killed Ron. “I Imperiused Madam Rosmerta into passing along a cursed necklace to Katie Bell in hopes that it would make it to Dumbledore. But Katie touched it and nearly died.”

“What was the Dark Lord’s reaction to that botched failure?” Tonks questioned, leaning back in her chair.

“When I went home for a weekend at the end of September, he cursed me so that for the next week, I would vomit any time I ate or drank, effectively starving me until the curse was lifted. Pansy Parkinson had to spoon feed me broth for three days.”

Hermione let out a gasp, unable to fathom such a harsh curse being placed on someone so young. Malfoy’s eyes lowered to her for a moment before flickering back up to stare at the wall. Whatever he thought in that moment caused Arthur to narrow his eyes at Malfoy.

“And Ron Weasley?” Kingsley prompted.

“After I was punished by the Dark Lord for my failure, I next had Rosmerta poison a bottle of honey mead and tried to get that to Dumbledore. I’m unsure how it came into Weasley’s possession.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, and his balding head turned a light shade of ugly puce, but still he said nothing. Hermione had to mentally commend the man on his diplomacy, because she was feeling a burning rage. She could remember with vivid clarity the way Ron looked, lying pale and barely breathing in the hospital wing.

Tonks shifted uncomfortably after glancing in Arthur’s direction. “And were you punished for this as well?”

Draco’s eyes fell to the covers draped over his legs. “One of the Dark Lord’s favorite methods of punishment was bloodletting. He sliced my arms or neck, letting me bleed out until I fainted and came close to death, before he would allow my mother to repair my wounds.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open as she pictured Draco Malfoy bleeding out on his black marble floors. The slice along his neck suddenly made her nauseous, so she let her eyes fall to his forearms. He must have noticed four sets of eyes travelling curiously across his skin, because he tucked his arms into himself. The room collectively grew heavy around them; Hermione found herself having trouble breathing, as though the air itself had grown too thick to readily inhale. Arthur, viewing Malfoy’s memories, looked as though he might be sick.

She was able to dredge up a mental vision of him in their seventh year, before the Death Eaters had taken over and they had dropped out of Hogwarts. She remembered him being pale, gaunt, and sickly looking. Harry had been obsessed with Malfoy’s grotesquely unhealthy demeanor, though she had brushed it off for the three months they had seen him before leaving. Now she knew it was because Malfoy had been brought to the edge of death, time and again, by his professed ‘master.’ The thought made her stomach roil.

“What happened directly leading to Dumbledore’s death just before Christmas?” Kingsley demanded.

“I made use of the two Vanishing Cabinets. It took me just over a month to repair the broken one at Hogwarts, but eventually managed, using a particularly difficult spell to bind broken connections: _Harmonia Nectere Passus._ On the twenty-third of December, a hand-selected team of Death Eaters went to Knockturn Alley and came through to Hogwarts, unencumbered. They used force to kidnap three students, whose names I do not know, as I made my way to the Astronomy Tower. The Dark Lord had ordered me to kill Dumbledore myself. I was with Marcus Gibbon, who cast the _Morsemordre_. The bound children were brought up and, just as the Dark Lord said he would, Dumbledore met us on the Tower. Though he seemed sickly, he fought off the others, knocking them all unconscious so that there would be no witnesses. He then asked Snape to kill him, which he did without hesitation. I was then taken back to Malfoy Manor, where I was tortured into confessing that I did not murder Dumbledore myself. Snape was killed by Nagini that night. I was chained to the wall of the dungeons in my own home,” Malfoy relayed quickly, the Truth Serum keeping his statements choppy, brief, and to the point.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmured next to him.

“Is he telling the truth?” Tonks asked.

“Unfortunately,” Arthur confirmed.

Kingsley took a deep breath and leaned forward on his knees, looking down at the hardwood flooring between his boots. “Other than Rosmerta, have you used the Imperius on anyone else?”

“Not often. I had other methods of gathering information. Lower-ranking Death Eaters were the ones normally performing the dirtier work.”

“Ranking? There are ranks now?” Kingsley asked, his brown drawing together.

“The Dark Lord is gearing up for a War unlike any other you have experienced. He split his Death Eaters into three tiers—the Authoritarian, two Executors and three Underlings. They have five dens, each with six Death Eaters.”

“That makes thirty. That’s an awfully low number,” Tonks argued, her tone disbelieving.

“You mistake what I’m saying. There are thirty in the ranks. But there are hundreds of Prospects out gathering information, injuring and threatening and strong-arming people. They are the ones who hunt down the Muggles and Muggle-borns to be questioned,” Malfoy replied, his eyes rising once more to look at Hermione directly.

She bristled at his pointed gaze, a shiver running down her spine. _Hunt down the Muggles and Muggle-borns_.

“What was your rank?” Arthur asked, almost conversationally.

“I was an Executor of Malfoy Manor. I was also given the special privilege of being the Interrogator,” for the first time, his tone grew dark.

“Interrogator? Who were you interrogating?” Hermione asked, knowing she should not be asking questions as she was not an Auror or Ministry official.

“Remember those Muggles and Muggle-borns I spoke of? The ones the Prospects were out collecting?” he inquired, his gaze steady on her face. “It was my duty to gather what I could from them before they were disposed of.”

“Dis—” Hermione’s voice caught in her throat.

“You’ve moved your parents,” Malfoy stated, his tone neither accusatory or sympathetic.

Hermione’s heart began to race as the implications of what he was saying, sank deep into her bones. Malfoy knew that her parents were no longer living in her childhood home. That would mean that a team of these Prospects, or even he himself, had gone looking for her... or worse, _them_. She silently thanked Merlin that she had moved them when she had.

“There has been some indication that you’ve moved them to Wales. It’s not far enough, Granger. They need to go away even further than that. And you need to strip them of any memory of you, or they will be tracked down and killed.”

It was Tonks who caught Hermione when her legs buckled beneath her. Her ears were ringing loudly, drowning out the concerned voices of those around her. Vision blurring, she was certain she would faint. As her bum touched the floor, Tonks ran a hand comfortingly over her forehead, pushing her hair from her face; Hermione took note of Malfoy sitting forward in the bed, looking at her with his brows creasing in the middle and his mouth set in a frown.

“How—” she tried to speak as her head spun. “How dare you?”

“I am simply stating facts, Granger. I know what is happening, I took part in it. I know what’s coming. It’s not safe for them--or honestly, for you, here.”

“I’m not leaving,” she said firmly, even as Tonks placed a wet cloth over her forehead.

“I’m not telling _you_ to. I’m telling you to move _them_ ,” Malfoy responded with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

“Tonks, why don’t you take Hermione into the dining hall?” Kingsley suggested, frowning from above her. “Some breakfast and Molly’s kind hand would do her some good right now.”

“I’m _not_ leaving,” she stated firmly once more. Backing herself against the leg of the desk, Hermione glared at Malfoy, her mind speeding through every possible scenario. Her parents, her only family in this world… she had thought changing their names and moving them to Wales to a tiny cottage along the seaside would be enough. It _had_ been enough for three years. What if the Death Eaters were already tracking them? A metallic taste of vomit rose in the back of her throat. “Who’s the Interrogator now that you’ve supposedly defected?”

“Probably Theodore Nott. He’s even more ruthless than I could have ever dreamed to be. And your lot killed his father last spring.”

Wracking her brain over who Theodore Nott was, the image of a thin, wiry boy from Slytherin came to the forefront of her memories. “How did you get Muggles and Muggle-borns to confess anything?”

“I used the Cruciatus, mostly. Blood was not my forte. My Cruciatus Curses were weak, because I never fully meant them—but even a weak _Crucio_ will do the job. Theo, however, enjoys drawing blood.”

“Stop it, you’re scaring her!” Arthur demanded, dropping his wand momentarily.

“I’m being realistic,” Malfoy retorted, sounding agitated now. “She needs to bring someone trained in the Obliviation to wipe their memories and send them far away—to South Africa or Australia. Somewhere far away from the United Kingdom.”

“And after they’re questioned, the people are just _killed_? Just like that?” Hermione asked. She tried to push out thoughts of her parents bleeding out from nicks across their necks.

“This is War, Granger. It’s not pretty.”

“How many people have you personally killed?” Tonks asked him. Arthur raised his wand back to Malfoy’s temple.

Malfoy’s lips pressed together, and Hermione could tell he was struggling against the Veritaserum. “One,” he finally answered. “And not through the _Avada_.”

Kingsley looked to Arthur, who looked absolutely horrified at whatever scene was currently playing out in Malfoy’s mind. Slowly, Arthur instructed, “Tell them.”

“My wife, Astoria. The Dark Lord put me under an Imperius Curse and forced me to slit her throat,” he bit out. “She was stuck to the floor, but struggled the entire time.”

Hermione’s mind cleared of thoughts of her parents just long enough to register that he was admitting to slitting his own wife’s throat.

“I thought you were a skilled Occlumens? You couldn’t fight an Imperius?” she accused, struggling to conjure up an image of the Slytherin girl.

Malfoy opened his mouth, but it was Kingsley who spoke first. “Occlumency and the Imperius work in two different ways. Occlumency relies on one’s ability to compartmentalize emotions and build walls around the mind in order to keep intruders out. The Imperius is harder to fight off—a rare ability—as it has nothing to do with emotion, and more to do with mind and motor function _control_.”

“Harry can fight it,” she argued irritably. “He fought it in fourth year, the only one in the class to do so.”

“Yes, he fought a weak curse in a classroom setting. Completely equivalent to the Dark Lord’s ruthless assault,” Malfoy spat, growing irritated with Hermione’s accusations. Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Malfoy sat forward once more, wincing in pain as he did so. “And furthermore, your savior couldn’t figure out Occlumency in an entire year—guided by his damned emotions and foolhardy need to be resistant to a proper teacher. Snape could have taught him, had Potter _wanted_ to learn to compartmentalize. But his arrogance and belief that he was untouchable got his dear friend, Sirius Black, killed, didn’t it?”

“Enough!” Kingsley roared, having clearly listened to enough bickering for one day. “Malfoy, you are in dangerous waters right now. Either way, let us continue with our interrogation, shall we?” He shot Hermione a disappointed look.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and sat back against the headboard. “Ask away, Minister.”

“Kingsley or Shacklebolt would work,” the ex-Minister sighed. “So, you state that Astoria Greengrass Malfoy is the only individual you have ever killed. You’ve never cast a Killing Curse, then?”

“I tried, once,” Malfoy admitted. “But, as you know, you have to _mean_ it. My father covered for me, of course. Spouted off about how killing was a deed for someone of _lesser_ status. A Malfoy should never soil their hands.”

“But Muggles and Muggle-borns were lured by Prospects for you to interrogate? You simply left the room before that took place?” Tonks inquired, helping Hermione to rise to her feet and sit in the desk chair.

“Essentially. I would spend hours with the individuals and then, when I got the information I needed, I would leave the room and the others would handle the disposal.”

“You realize these are human beings you speak of?” Hermione hissed.

“Naturally,” Malfoy shrugged, his cold stare slicing through her once more. “Hence the reason why I left the room before there was blood shed.”

“And _he_ just let you go that easily?” Arthur asked him, his tone even and curious.

“Doesn’t matter _who_ does the killing, as long as it gets done. And there are so many other savages willing to do it.”

“But yet, you want to exact revenge?” Kingsley leaned forward, staring at Malfoy.

“Killing innocents is a world away from killing bloodthirsty beasts who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if ordered to kill an infant,” Malfoy replied, dragging his gaze up to match Kingsley’s.

“Is there anything else you need to confess?” Tonks questioned, her hair turning bright red as she pondered the life her cousin had led thus far.

“I have participated in three Revels,” he revealed. “During the first, I was still young—before the implementation of the ranking system. We went to small, Scottish village and ransacked the entire town. Women were dragged from their homes, and some of the others raped and beat them. I was threatened into holding one woman down so that Fenrir Greyback could rape and then maul her to death. I was told that if I did not assist him, my throat ripped out in place of hers.

“The second, took place under secondhand orders of my father’s. We entered the Ministry; Yaxley and Thicknesse used the Imperius Curse to overthrow Scrimgeour, while I acted as the lookout. He was taken to one of the dens and beheaded by Theodore Nott and Bellatrix Lestrange.

“On the third, we were ordered to pull Charity Burbage from her home and bring her to the Dark Lord. According to orders, we burned her home to the ground with her children inside. I brought her to the Manor while the others set the fire. She was later killed and eaten by Nagini.”

Malfoy finally fell silent of his harsh and blunt explanations, and the air in the room was suffocating under the weight of his confessions. His face was still stony, but Hermione noticed that his gaze had fallen down to stare at his blanket once more, and he looked ashamed for the first time since he had begun speaking. Everyone was silent, digesting all of the heinous information he had just divulged.

Though she was uncomfortable with his presence in their home, the reality of what he had spoken of made every inch of her body ache with unbridled disgust and horror. Hermione knew what the Death Eaters were capable of, what they found entertaining. But to hear, in graphic detail from someone who had _lived_ it, was an experience all its own.

Her bleeding, empathetic heart was warring with her snarky, cynical brain. She had gone back and forth with him, arguing about his abilities to fight off the Imperius and blaming him for the danger her parents were facing, but she knew in that moment that he truly was defecting. No one person could witness all of those acts and come out of it whole and strong—no one could live their entire life in that environment unless they were truly evil. If what he was saying was true—and she suspected it was, considering he was not only under Veritaserum, but also having his thoughts scanned as he spoke for any sign of deception—perhaps he was not as evil as they had all believed. Hermione felt split down the middle, wanting to hate him with every fiber of her being for the acts of his former comrades, for the fate her parents would soon face. But as she stared at him, lying helpless in the bed, she could not help but feel the slightest bit of pity for him.

“Let’s discuss these dens you speak of,” Kingsley instructed, being the first to finally find his voice in the smothering, oppressive room.

“I’ll need a map,” Malfoy told him. “I can show you approximately where they are. Along with who is stationed at each.”

Tonks left the room and came back moments later with an open book, the pages lying open to a map of the United Kingdom. Hermione handed her a quill and inkpot and the witch reclaimed her position at the chair by his bedside.

“You’ll have to write, as I’m left-handed,” Malfoy told her. “There are five, protected by Unplottable Charms and ancient Dark magics. A team of curse-breakers, if skilled enough, could likely infiltrate them.” Lifting a long finger, he indicated a place on the map. “My home in Wiltshire: the Dark Lord stays here and rarely leaves. In order of ranking, top to bottom, one Authoritarian, two Executors, three Underlings: Bellatrix, Rookwood, Greyback, Mulciber, Jugson, Pettigrew.”

Tonks was scribbling furiously as he spoke, her handwriting dreadfully messy; Hermione hoped she would be able to read it all at the next Order meeting.

Malfoy slid his finger slightly across the map. “The Parkinsons’ Factory at the end of Knockturn Alley. There is a flat above it. Ira Parkinson, Crabbe, Sr., Dolohov, Avery, Hortense Zabini, Scabior.”

Hermione shuddered at the mentioning of Antonin Dolohov and touched the deep scar on her shoulder, left over from his attack in the Department of Mysteries.

“Who is Hortense Zabini?” Tonks asked as she scribbled the name.

“Blaise Zabini’s wife,” Malfoy stated simply, gliding his skeletal finger to another location. “The Black family home, along the seaside in Scotland. Not far from here—perhaps an hour on broom. Rodolphus Lestrange, McNair, Yaxley, Daphne Greengrass, Rosier, Millicent Goyle, née Bulstrode.”

At the mention of a cell so close to where they currently sat, Tonks and Kingsley shared a glance. It was clear to Hermione, and to Malfoy if the smug look on his face was an indicator, that the information he was divulging was new to the Order. The thought was unsettling to her, and she knew the others were feeling ruffled as well.

Malfoy pointed to another location. “The Notts’ illegal dragon farm, central Wales. Theodore Nott, Alecto Carrow, Rowle, Crabbe, Jr., Travers, Blaise Zabini.”

“We know where that is! Charlie has done sweeps of that farm on more than one occasion!” Arthur supplied to the room, and Hermione could already see him calculating how he would get a message to his son.

“Nott is crafty. He has learned from his father’s mistakes. The entire farm is underground now, and the dragons moved to grottos and deep dungeons below the earth,” Malfoy told him, looking from him to Kingsley. “It will be much harder to find this time.”

“The fifth place?” Tonks asked, counting the locations he had already supplied her with.

Malfoy lifted his hand once more and pointed the last location. “The Greengrass Distillery in Northern Ireland. Goyle, Sr., Amycus Carrow, Rabastan, Gibbon, Selwyn, Goyle Jr.”

“How did he come into possession of these locations exactly? By force?” Kingsley asked, leaning over to read Tonks’ shorthand notes.

Malfoy snorted condescendingly. “Willingly volunteered, along with everyone’s bank vaults. Hence why I have nothing right now.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Kingsley looked him over. “I want your memories that we viewed today stored individually. I’ll have Ollivander supply you with a new wand—but be forewarned, if you use a single hex against any person in the Order, you will be back out on the streets, a homeless urchin... and I will feed those memories to a vigilante Muggle-born.”

Malfoy huffed a laugh, clearly surprised by the threat, and nodded once. The three elder Order members rose from their seats and made for the door. Placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder as she rose, Arthur told her, “He can be left alone now. I saw no deception or ill-will in his thoughts.”

The wizard shimmied back down in his bed, turning his back toward them as he sighed in exhaustion. Hermione stole one final glance at him for the time being, once again wondering who he actually was and what he felt about his ghastly experiences. Her parents’ faces flashed in her mind’s eye and her nervous, unrelenting stress returned with a vengeance. She wondered if she would be strong enough to do what he had suggested and Obliviate them, or if her emotions would once again keep her from acting. The witch had no idea how much time she had left before Malfoy’s predictions would come to fruition, but her heart and gut were both telling her that it was imperative she heed his warning.

Walking from his room and through the commons area, Hermione passed her friends silently as she made her way down the women’s corridor and to her bedroom. She had no desire to speak to anyone and was grateful when the others jumped on the seasoned Order members to begin their questioning. When she entered her room, she placed a silencing spell on the area and collapsed back against the door, finally succumbing to heart-wrenching sobs which wracked her entire body as she thought of the monumental and potentially dangerous task of stealing her parents’ memories.

o-o-o

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Hermione was sipping her morning coffee just after daybreak, staring out at the Scottish Highlands. Fog had settled in a hazy blanket over the sprawling meadows. After Malfoy's interrogation the day before, it had rained heavily, washing away all of the snow. Looking out past the far mountains, another storm was looming on the horizon, threatening to fall at any moment.

Molly waltzed in, rollers in her hair and a tatty robe covering her plump figure. "Good morning, Hermione. Did you sleep well?" she asked as she started the fire in the hearth to begin cooking.

The younger witch simply hummed in response. In truth, no, she had not slept a single second the entire night before. She had lain awake in bed, rethinking every single aspect of Malfoy's interrogation. A chill ran down her back every time his mentioning of her parents made its way into her memory. You've moved your parents. The deadpanned way he spoke of her parents did not sit well with her.

Arthur walked in, already dressed for the day and carrying the newspaper. It appeared each morning in the stump of an old yew tree on the property, sent by an outside connection—they were all afraid of receiving owls to the property too often. "There's an article here about the Malfoys."

Hermione's interest was piqued, and she turned to face them, leaning back against the countertop. "What about them?"

Arthur sighed a long-suffering and exhausted exhale of breath and unfurled the newspaper on the table. He opened it and a large spread directly across the middle of the paper fell to plain view. Hermione leaned up to investigate and clapped a hand over her mouth. There was a large photo of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's bodies, tied to a stake in the middle of Diagon Alley. A group of three men in silvery masks circled them, lighting a pile of fodder ablaze beneath their bodies. Hermione noticed the matching scarlet necklaces they wore and could hear Malfoy's weak rasp as he told them his parents' fate. Dead. And Astoria. Dark Lord, slit throats.

The photo was sickening enough, but the barbaric treatment of their already deceased bodies made her empty stomach flop uncomfortably. "We should tell him," Hermione reasoned, closing the paper so the offending image disappeared.

"He's been through enough!" Molly sad, whipping around with her hands on her hips.

"You can't mollycoddle the boy, sweetheart. He's a grown man and he deserves to know about his parents," Arthur argued gently.

"When he gets his strength back," his wife countered, and Arthur opened his mouth to bicker back.

Hermione took the tense moment between the two to nonchalantly roll the paper up tightly and slip it into her robe. She grabbed a couple pieces of toast and a fresh cup of black coffee and left the room while Molly spit venom. Malfoy had not taken it easy on her the day before—and she wanted to know precisely how the Death Eaters knew of her parents' whereabouts when she had taken such care in hiding them.

Perhaps, she could tell him about his and in turn, receive more information about her own. The lack of sleep from the night before, coupled with her nerves over seeing Malfoy again had her feeling lightheaded. She padded across the small courtyard and back into the housing quarters, turning left down the men's corridor. His door was the last in the hallway and she lifted her hand to knock. The corridor was dark, not enough of the early morning rays lighting the way.

Hermione knew he could very well be sleeping, and so she cracked his door and peered within before disturbing him with a knock. She could only imagine the petulant attitude she would receive if she woke him. He was sitting up in his bed, smoking a cigarette, the window next to him open. She could see the hazy cloud filling the room and his silhouette as he turned to face the intruder entering his room.

"Can I help you, Granger?" his deep voice bit out, and she heard the long exhale of him breathing out a fresh cloud.

"You better not let Molly catch you smoking," she admonished, putting her hands on her hips as she stepped within.

"Or what? Will she kick me out on my arse because I indulged in the one vice I have in this world? You'll learn—that threat does not affect me as badly as you'd suspect," he replied, and Hermione narrowed her eyes as his cloud began to choke the fresh air from her lungs.

"You're here for a reason—you could have killed yourself or stayed behind for him to kill, had you truly wanted to die," Hermione argued, fighting the urge to stomp her foot impatiently as he used the dying end of one cigarette to light the next. "And that is a disgusting habit, by the way."

The light filtering through the window was a dim grey, but she could see one half of his face illuminated by it, the other half hidden in shadows. "Lucky for me, I'm not trying to seduce anyone."

"A fat chance you'd find anyone here, anyway. The women of the Order are far more respectable than the women I'm sure you're used to," she spat, crossing her arms in an attempt not to look like Molly.

"Yes. My wife was a real trollop," he deadpanned and before she could respond, Malfoy raised his eyes to meet hers and tossed his head back, letting out a long stream of smoke. His gaze never left hers and she knew he was smoking a second cigarette just to get directly under her skin. The look on his face was one of defiance, as he had held during their years at Hogwarts and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Is there a reason you're in here before daybreak, riding my wand so aggressively?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face, clearing it of the toxic air. She went to stand next to his bed and ran through what exactly she would say to him. In her haste to leave the bickering Weasley parents, Hermione had not thoroughly developed a plan on how to approach him to explain his parents' fate to him.

His silvery gaze was shining bright, even in darkness as she looked down at him uncertainly. "Why are you saddling up so close to me? And staring at me with a look of constipation on your face?"

Hermione huffed indignantly. "Do you always have to be such a prick? I have something serious to tell you. And in turn, I would like some information from you."

"You're propositioning me for information by feeding me something you deem important? How very cunning of you," he accused, looking up at her with his face still bathed in darkness.

"It's about your parents," she offered, trying to capture his attention.

Evidently, her attempted worked. She could see Malfoy's brow furrow in the shadows as he studied her intently. "They're dead. What could you possibly have to say in regard to them? Want to rub their cold, corpse noses into the dirt they'll no doubt be buried in soon?"

"The Death Eaters burned their bodies at the stake," she blurted out, ignoring his jeering and rushing to get the statement out, lest she explode from the withheld information.

Malfoy recoiled from her as though she had hit him and looked away from her and out of the open window, his face in the direct path of a cold December breeze. He tucked his injured arm into himself and ran a hand along the bandages. "Do you—do you want to talk about it?" she asked him, anxiety coursing through her at his silence.

The blond wore a look of icy boredom, but the tense set of his jaw gave away his underlying feelings. "To you? Don't make me laugh, Granger. We aren't friends—we aren't even acquaintances."

His constant barrage of arrogant and cruel remarks was beginning to wear her patience thin. Here she was, trying to make a true effort to share information about his family with him and he was spitting it back in her face. The bastard. "Malfoy, if you're going to stay here, you would do well to remember that you need an ally."

He glared at her and extinguished his cigarette, waving his new wand awkwardly in his right hand. It took two tries to clear the residue away. "Bloody thing still isn't responding to my commands," he mumbled under his breath, attempting to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Hermione noted that Malfoy seemed to be gaining strength each day. He was naked, save a fresh pair of boxer briefs from his sanctioned, Arthur-assisted bath the night before. When he rose, his back cracked, and his knees creaked. His posture, always so prim and proper in school, pin straight even as he had carried a school bag, was slouched and he looked to be suffering quite spectacularly. Yet, Malfoy said nothing. He did not complain a single word as he leaned over and retrieved a hooded jumper and joggers from his bottom drawer.

The muscles in his back moved under the surface of his skin, shadows cast over his rib cage as he stretched to pull the jumper over his head. Hermione looked away, feeling voyeuristic as she watched him moving. The contrast between the strength his body clearly held and the weakness he was displaying in his illness was striking and worrisome. "What information did you want?" he questioned gruffly as he pulled a pair of socks onto his feet. "It's so bloody cold in here."

Hermione, ever the Healer in the absence of Molly, lifted the inside of her wrist to his forehead and it was scorching hot. Her touch on his skin made him jerk away quickly, as though she were the one on fire. "I'll spare you the lecture about leaving the window open in December—"

"Good, thank you. I scarce have enough energy to process your incessant nagging—"

"But, on top of that, you're running a serious fever. You need more potions," she told him with a frown, knowing she would have to brew a new batch of anti-febrile potions soon if his temperature did not level out.

Malfoy grunted in response and slid back under the thin blanket. He curled his knees toward his chest, creating a tight ball and tucked his good arm under the pillow. Hermione could tell he felt absolutely wretched and she almost had compassion for him, until she was given a reminder of his poisonous attitude. "Out with it, Granger. My patience is wearing thin and the pain potions are wearing even thinner."

"How did you know?" Hermione asked carefully, looking to her hands instead of at his face.

There was a long moment's pause, wherein she thought perhaps her question was too vague. But she could not bring herself to voice the questions that had haunted her thoughts all the night through. Malfoy made a slight grunting noise—the only indication that he was still suffering immensely. Hermione reached into her pocket and her hand closed around a half-empty bottle of pain potion. Her brain was trying to decide if she should use it as a bargaining chip or give it to him now, when he spoke. "Your contact to bring them nourishment and necessities is a Squib—a distant cousin of Seamus Finnigan, I believe?"

Her eyes rose from a place at the edge of his bed to his face as her mouth dropped open. "How—"

"I have no doubt that you have done some intricate spell work to conceal their whereabouts, Granger—"

"I have! I changed their names and appearances. They are staying in a home that appears to be dilapidated and abandoned in a village so small it is not even on a map of Wales. They never go out anywhere and no one ever comes in, except Seamus' cousin!" she told him indignantly.

"And I have no doubt that your concealment would have continued to work, as it has for the last few years, had you picked a more reliable go-between. The Squib got pissed at a little wizarding pub in the next village over. Started talking about how he was guarding the secret of a very important Muggle-born," Malfoy began.

Hermione could feel her heart seizing within her chest, and she clutched her hand to the front of her robe tightly. "I made him take a Vow of Silence!"

"Well, he didn't exactly give up the secret, or the whereabouts, did he? Not to mention—he's a Squib. There's no magic in his veins, so the Vow would not have been as strong as it would have been if you had found a pureblood, or even a half-blood to share the spellwork," he told her, his striking grey eyes looking up at her from where he lay.

"So, the Death Eaters just deduced that it was me?" Hermione asked, though she already knew the answer.

"You are the most important Muggle-born in the wizarding world, right now. And it did not take a genius to realize what secret he was talking about, once a sweep of your parents' home in London was completed," he said, his voice one of detached boredom.

"Do they know exactly where my parents are?" she questioned, genuinely fearing the answer.

He shrugged noncommittally under his bedding, a slight movement that was nearly imperceptible. "As of the time I had left, no. But…Granger, the Death Eaters do regular sweeps of small Muggle villages all the time. It's only a matter of time before they figure it out."

Hermione stared at him, and his gaze on her was unwavering, unsettling. The piercing stare sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Still, she pulled her robe tighter around her and bit her bottom lip. There was something about the way he was looking at her—he knew more than he was letting on. And she could see it, buried in the depths of his arctic orbs. "You know something more."

Malfoy blinked once and then nodded slowly. "Not specifically regarding your parents."

"What, then? If you have information that could help the Order, you must divulge it! If you've truly defected, you need to tell us everything! Otherwise, how could we ever trust you?" she asked him, feeling her voice going from concerned to screeching Harpy.

"Calm yourself, Granger. Don't give yourself a nosebleed," he reprimanded lightly, causing her to grit her teeth against his attitude once more. "The Dark Lord has devised a plan to round up all of the Muggle-borns in Britain and keep them all in one central location."

Malfoy spoke slowly, letting each word sink itself deeper into her tissue. "And he views Muggles—specifically the families who spawned the Muggle-borns—as leverage."

"Leverage? Leverage for what?" Hermione asked, her voice a rasping whisper.

Malfoy remained silent and she knew her answer before he even had a chance to say it. "To draw us out of hiding," she choked out, feeling as though there were a hand wrapping around her throat and closing off her airways.

Her eyes were darting across the floor, her brain moving at lightning speed to process what he was telling her. Voldemort was going to be building an area to house hundreds of Muggle-borns, and he would kidnap their families and torture or kill them to bring the witches and wizards around. Malfoy shifted in the bed slightly, putting his white-blond hair in her line of sight. "Granger?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She must look quite the frightened sight, but still, his face showed very little reaction to her emotions. He snapped his fingers, pulling her from her troubled reverie. "Remember when I told you, you need to get your parents the fuck away from the United Kingdom? This is why."

"How long do you think I have?" Hermione asked, feeling almost desperate for a reasonable answer.

"I don't know," Malfoy answered truthfully. "The Squib outed you little over a week ago. But since then," he motioned toward his long and lithe frame under the blankets, "my whereabouts have become priority number one."

Hermione was once again reminded of exactly how foolish her actions had been, to bring a Death Eater into the home she shared with her friends and extended family. But looking at him, his face flushed with fever and his eyes so penetrating, she knew that he was true in his words and that he would make a valuable asset to the Order. She withdrew the vial from her pocket.

"You withheld pain potion until you got the information out of me?" he asked, and his tone was almost impressed.

"Not purposefully," she told him, only a half-lie.

Hermione placed a hand under his back, scorching hot to the touch, even through his jumper, and helped lift him to a higher position. She went to place the vial to his lips and he swatted her hand. "I can feed myself now."

He'll be a great asset to the Order if he can learn to shut his bloody mouth.

"Do you think he and the Death Eaters know you've defected?" she inquired, worrying for the millionth time about the increased danger the Order was facing with him here.

He gave a snort of derision and laid back against her hand once more. "Please. No one would ever imagine the Interrogator would defect successfully. He probably assumes you all would never take me in after what I've done," he told her, hesitating slightly. "I'm surprised any of you have given me a chance and did not kill me when I was defenseless on the stairs in the snow. No…he likely assumes I've run away completely."

"We aren't savages," Hermione replied, stepping back from Malfoy as he closed his eyes and relished the feel of the potion coursing through him.

"No. I suppose you wouldn't have killed me right off—though you would have had every reason to," he conceded.

Hermione studied him lying there for a moment longer than she perhaps should have. After hearing his revelation about the Muggle-born collections, she knew she needed to heed his warning and move her parents to a distant location. And fast. The countenance that overtook his features was nearing serene and he looked as though peace were overtaking him as the pain subsided. "Your bandages need changing. I'll be back this evening to assist with that. And I'll brew some anti-febrile potions."

Malfoy hummed at the back of his throat, his eyes still closed and his mouth parting slightly as he began to drift out of consciousness, a gentle sleeping draught one of the active ingredients in this particular potion. She moved the toast and black coffee she had brought closer to his bed and placed a stasis charm on it before she turned to leave, knowing she had a few hours until she would need to return to check on him.

"Thank you," came the impossibly soft sound of his voice from behind her and Hermione stopped walking for a brief moment, looking over her shoulder to where he was now facing away from her completely.

Hermione slipped from his room, utterly bewildered by the strange sound of his voice when it was not biting with condescension. She knew precisely with whom she needed to speak about her parents.

The witch stopped in the Commons area between the two corridors of bedrooms and withdrew the newspaper from her pocket. Looking at the photographic evidence of the horrific way the Death Eaters had handled two of their own, she tossed the paper into the fireplace. It curled and hissed as it shrank and was reduced to ash within mere moments. Her chest still throbbing dully, Hermione made her way across the compound once more, through the dining hall and into the kitchen. Molly was brusquely stirring a pot of porridge, actively ignoring her husband behind her. Arthur was seated at the small kitchen table and had a Muggle torch out on the table before him, pulling apart a battery, painstaking piece by painstaking piece.

"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, I need to speak with you both," she tried.

Arthur looked up from his torch and furrowed his brow at her, taking on a concerned-father demeanor. Molly turned from the hearth, carrying a frying pan full of sizzling sausages to the table. Lavender and Ginny walked in, both looking tired and intent on getting caffeine into their bodies as quickly as possible. "Perhaps in the dining hall?" Hermione mentioned and even Molly looked worried now.

"Is everything okay, dear?" she questioned, straightening up and eyeing Hermione.

Hermione led the two of them into the dining hall, watching the door for incoming Order members. "I spoke to Malfoy."

Molly's face darkened, and Arthur's eyebrows raised toward his long-gone hairline. "I thought we agreed to wait?" the elder witch asked primly.

"Malfoy has been nothing but straight forward with me—he deserved to know. And I wanted more information about my parents. If I had no leverage, he likely wouldn't have given it to me," Hermione explained, feeling guilt eat at her as she always had when being reprimanded by a superior.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Hermione. Draco is—he's disturbed, to say the least," Arthur told her, his face screwed into a grimace as he remembered seeing into the young wizard's mind during the interrogation. "But I saw no deception in his mind. Only bitter loneliness and a thirst for revenge."

Hermione listened patiently as Arthur spoke, wondering exactly he was envisioning in his mind's eye. "He's creating a holding compound for Muggle-borns. And he's planning to use our families as leverage to draw us out of the shadows."

"A holding compound?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know what exactly. But an area where they intend to place all Muggle-borns. To what end, I'm not entirely sure—Malfoy was growing weak as we spoke. I need to move my parents. Alroy Finnigan gave them up in a roundabout way and Malfoy believes it is only a matter of time until they are located. The Death Eaters occupy entire villages all over—and I'm sure they aren't very kind in their pillaging and murdering."

"You need us to come with you, dear? Is that what you are asking?" Molly asked, her voice growing tender with compassion.

"Do you think I'm barmy to listen to him?" Hermione voiced her most pressing question.

"No," Arthur said right away. "He came to us as a defector. I don't believe he's here as a spy—he was not lying about his parents' deaths, was he? I saw it in his memories—he was only on his side because he wanted to keep his parents alive."

"Then, yes. I would like if the two of you could come with me to—to talk with my parents. Malfoy told me to obliviate them and send them to South Africa or Australia. And, if what he said is true, I think perhaps that is the best course of action. I just need help speaking to them—to make them understand, because they were already reluctant to go into hiding. If I propose taking their memories, they won't readily agree."

Arthur and Molly looked at her, Molly's eyes welling with tears on her behalf. "No one should ever have to make such a difficult decision regarding their mother and father."

Hermione thought of Arthur's words—he was only on his side because he wanted to keep his parents alive. A shudder ran through her at the thought that she had anything in common with Malfoy at all. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly who Draco Malfoy was.

"Hermione," Arthur's voice broke through her thoughts, "what are you prepared to do if your parents refuse to accept this plan?"

Her mouth fell open as she gaped at him for a moment, her ever active brain trying to avoid thinking about forcing her parents at the end of her wand. "I don't think they have an easier option. They'll be dead in a month if I don't do this."

"You've made all of these decisions, in the last thirty minutes? Don't you want more time to think about it?" Molly inquired, trying to be sympathetic.

"No. I've been thinking about it since I walked out of his interrogation. His…revelation today only cemented this idea," she said, pushing a curl behind her ear as her bottom lip trembled.

"Where will you send them?" Arthur questioned.

"Australia. Sydney. They've always wanted to visit, and they love the warm weather. I think," her voice cracked dangerously, "I think they'd enjoy it."

They were all silent for a moment, the two elder Weasleys staring at her in sympathetic sadness. "Hermione, what will you do if, after the War has ended, you cannot bring their memories back?" Arthur asked her finally.

"Arthur! Don't put such negative thoughts into her head!" Molly scolded, wringing an oven mitt in her hands.

"I'm only being realistic. She needs to consider all of the consequences before we go and obliviate her only family. She needs to be prepared!" he retorted to his wife, who closed her mouth with contrite clasping.

"I just wish you didn't have to go through this alone, Hermione," Molly cried once more, pulling her adoptive daughter into a tight grasp.

Molly's coddling and overbearing way of caring warmed her heart and Hermione once again thought to the blond who lie in his bed a hundred yards from where she stood. Malfoy was truly alone in the world—an enemy to both sides until he proved himself worthy. His parents had been brutally murdered, stripped from him for eternity and she felt as though, if he could survive that, she could survive the possibility of her parents being irreversibly stripped of their memories. If it meant they were alive.

"I'm not alone. I have you all," she responded, burying her face into Molly's warm shoulder.

o-o-o

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed. In the distance, low rumbling brontides of thunder sounded and lightning flashed, illuminating her room in a macabre light show. It was late—she had no doubt that everyone else would be either sleeping or holed away in their respective bedrooms. Her entire body was vibrating with anxious energy and she wondered if Malfoy had finally awakened. She had checked on him twice since leaving him that morning and both times he had been fast asleep.

Wringing her hands once more as a particularly violent clap of thunder sounded, closer than any previous, she stood and retrieved the items she needed for his care. Opening the door, she looked at the closed doors along the corridors. Softly padding across hardwood, she tiptoed through the Commons area—mercifully empty—and down the men's hall. She hesitated outside of Malfoy's door, pressing her forehead to the wood to steady her breath.

She knocked softly and listened for the sound of movement behind his door. When her efforts where met with silence, her hand gently opened it. Her head of voluminous curls peered around and looked into the dim room. Malfoy was sitting up slightly in his bed. Hermione stepped into the room and went to close the door. It would not do to be caught alone with him—both for fear of the conclusions the others, particularly Ron, would draw and for fear that he may train his wand on her. Instead of closing the door, she opened it all the way, though she hoped no one would hover in the corridor to eavesdrop.

The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke again and she wrinkled her nose. Of all the vices he could have, he chose smoking. A foul habit if she had ever seen one. His head dropped back into the fluffy pillow, a crater easily carved from his head being pressed into it for days. Her lips parted, a reprimand on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she tried to swallow down the memory of the photograph of the Malfoys burning at the stake and nodded her head once. "Malfoy."

She walked further into the room, placing the bowl of warm water, a cloth and her potions box on his nightstand. Malfoy appeared to be in a state of strangely peaceful calm as he watched the storm rage outside of his window. A shallow sigh escaped his lips. "Granger."

His tone was sharp and cutting and her anxiety began to eat away at her once more. Her eyes darted to the door before she broke the silence. "I've come to clean your arm and redress the wounds."

She was wholly unprepared to be met with his steely gaze once more as he looked up at her, steel meeting mahogany. "Get on with it then."

Hermione ignored the sharp stare of his eyes on her as she moved, her own flickering toward the door on occasion. She waited for someone to walk by, to question why she was redressing his wounds at nearly midnight and in the dim light. His wand lay beside him, but he made no move to grasp it. He was showing a measure of trust in her and she wondered how long he had been forced to live, looking over his shoulder to make sure his closest friends were not going to murder him from behind.

Her fingers undid the bandages and his mutilated arm came into view. In the blue-grey light of the room, she turned his arm over, searching for further damage. Molly's advanced knowledge of healing potions had worked to his advantage—the bleeding had finally been stymied. But there were broken tendons and ligaments and the witch gnawed at her lip as she looked at the exposed wound. How on earth would they be able to restore the ability to use his hand once more? "I wish there was a way to cover this. Like a magical skin graft of some kind."

Closing those haunting eyes of his, Malfoy drawled, "I wasn't aware you cared."

Not one to back down from a challenge, she returned his quip with one of her own, her eyes dragging up to meet his once he reopened them. "I don't," Hermione told him, her features steeling, "but if you're going to stay with the rest of us, we shouldn't be forced to look at this. It's hard enough not to gag at the sight of you."

The blond wizard rolled his eyes and winced as she began dabbing rose water into his open wound with perhaps slightly more gusto than necessary for the task. Her relishing of his discomfort was short lived as a flash of particularly bright white lightning and a deafening crash of thunder sounded. Her stony façade, false in the face of her foe, crumpled slightly as her fingers tightened around his wrist.

She could feel him analyzing her as she blatantly avoided his stare. "Are you afraid of thunderstorms?" he questioned, his tone ever so slightly amused.

"I've hated them since I was a child," she recalled, unsure of why she was revealing such a pathetic weakness to him. "Booming shakes that rattle the entire house and cracks of lightning that could set a house ablaze in a matter of seconds. It's unnerving and unsettling."

Hermione dragged a dropped of Dittany over his wound, trying to swallow down the smell and the sizzling noise the liquid made when it came into contact with flesh. Always needing to be contrary, he opened his mouth to argue, though his tone was lighter than before. "Yes, but thunderstorms are predictable if you know what to look for."

Her eyes flickered to the door once more and she wondered what the others would think if they heard her conversing cordially with Malfoy about the weather. "How so?"

Malfoy's face became guarded and he worked his jaw for a moment, as though he were contemplating speaking his next thought at all. She waited and was nearly convinced he would stay silent until his voice, soft and uncertain, broke through the night. "A storm begins in the distance, looming and just out of reach. The lightning is a display of raw power, the thunder a soft drumming melody—like a heartbeat. It grows nearer, and the magnitude of the storm becomes apparent as it opens and unleashes its wrath, encompassing everything in its wake. And then it leaves, sometimes after only a short while, sometimes after a prolonged stay."

The observation was incredibly perceptive, but Hermione got the impression that he was speaking of more than just distant thunder on the horizon. "Like War," she suggested, believing this to be the underlying meaning behind his words.

"Or love," he said in a breathy whisper, turning his face toward the cool breeze that filtered in from the December storm.

Hermione was so startled by such a tender thought coming from Draco Malfoy that she nearly forgot she was holding onto his arm. Her ministrations in wrapping his wound stilled briefly as her body sputtered, trying to process such a foreign concept. He looked exhausted once more and she hoped he would begin to feel better with another dose of anti-febrile potions. Her work was quick on his arm and she gently placed his hand back on his abdomen where it had rested before her entrance. "All done."

He muttered his thanks for the second time that day and Hermione pulled the anti-febrile potion from her box and placed the glass vial on his nightstand. She was nearly out of that suffocating and queer situation when his voice stopped her. "Mermaid scales."

Mermaid scales? What in Merlin's grey beard was he talking about? "I beg your pardon?" she asked, whipping around to face him.

"Mermaid scales could act as a makeshift skin graft as the biological and cellular structure is closer to human skin than actual fish scales," he finished, a turn of his head a clear dismissal of her.

Hermione nodded once, though he never saw the gesture. She left his room swiftly after that, running over the strange conversation they had just shared. Malfoy had seemed almost human. He had gone from scathing arsehole to nearly cordial.

Mermaid scales. Of course—how had she never thought of that before? If she could devise a salve to plaster the scales to his skin and keep it bound tightly, the skin would grow back around the scales. And the arteries, tendons and muscle could easily repair and flourish under such nutrient dense tissue. But where to get enough scales? She supposed she could ask their Healer contact and made a mental note to floo call her in the morning. No doubt they would be rare and expensive.

Hermione made her way to her room and flopped back into her bed. The following day, she and the Weasley parents would slip, by cover of darkness, to her parents' hideaway and strip them of their only child, effectively rendering her an orphan. Though Harry Potter was her oldest friend and had never known his parents, it was another orphan's haunted silver gaze that taunted her late into the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

 

It was in the wee hours of the next morning, hours before the sun was to rise, that Hermione and the Weasley parents stood in front of the dilapidated structure where she had hidden her parents. Every possible scenario had run through her mind since Kingsley had arrived and told her their plan was a go and to move quickly. As foolish as it was of her to try and listen for noises within the home, with the powerful silencing and repelling charms she had placed over the vicinity, she found herself doing that very thing.

 

The possibility that the Death Eaters had already visited them rang very real within her, paralyzing her with fear. She found her feet planted firmly to the ground, her knees nearly knocking as her legs shook and struggled to hold her upright. Arthur, his features masked so that he looked more like a thirty-year-old seafarer, placed a hand on her back. “We must move quickly. Kingsley said every minute was precious.”

 

The witch, usually bushy-haired and short, was disguised to look like a tall, straight-haired blonde and Molly looked like an older version of this blond, possibly her mother. Hermione lifted her wand shakily as her other hand vibrated and rattled, resting against the invisible barrier she had placed around the structure. Whispering the reversal spells to allow the Weasleys to pass through, a tear slid down her cheek.

 

The heavy magical wards lifted, the absence of their gentle ripples making Hermione’s heart feel unequivocally hollow inside. The house was leaning dangerously on its foundation, the boards of the porch weak and feeble. Their steps creaked menacingly, and she worried they would fall through before they even made it inside. The wood of the front door was disillusioned to appear soft and porous, termite damage evident. Hermione whispered a series of spells, magically unlocking the dozen deadbolts and locks she had placed to keep intruders out. The last step to get into the home, she pointed her wand at her palm and dragged it across, causing a scarlet path to bloom from her pale skin. The witch drew the trail of blood, like a ribbon and dripped it over the front door and the last lock clicked free.

 

The wood swung open, creaking far too noisily in the still of the early morning. Arthur entered first, his wand forward as he guarded them from the front. Molly stood behind Hermione, flanking them from behind, her eyes scanning rooms wildly. Hermione had her wand out and looked from side to side as she made her way to the back room. The interior of the home was not nearly as pitiful as it appeared from the state of the house’s exterior. But it was sparsely decorated, only containing the bare essentials needed for her parents’ survival.

 

“Mum? Dad?” she whispered loudly into the house, their footsteps echoing piercingly.

 

The lack of wards disturbed her deeply as they made their way to the bedroom. Arthur entered first. “Helen? Richard?” his voice called out.

 

Hermione heard a rustling and a whispered swear as her father rose from bed. “Who are you? What do you want?”

 

“Dad!” Hermione screeched and she pushed past Arthur.

 

Molly, perturbed with how forcefully her voice broke through the serenity, began placing silencing spells on the room. Hermione plowed firmly into her bewildered father, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s me, dad. I’m glamoured to look like someone else—just like you. And this is Molly and Arthur Weasley.”

 

He stiffened in her embrace. “How do I know that for certain?”

 

Hermione felt a surge of pride go through her. Her father had listened to her when she told him to trust no one. Her mother rose from the bed as well, backing up against their wardrobe as she glanced wearily at the three magical beings. “When I was six, a bout of accidental magic swelled mum’s nose to four times its size. I was angry because you would not allow me to eat Halloween treats with my friends. We had to travel to Spain to get a cosmetic surgeon to fix what I had done.”

 

The features of the man she had charmed her father to look like smoothed slightly and he scooped her up in his arms. “Oh, Hermione! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you! We were wondering when you would be here. Alroy assured us that you had not been killed, but we were beginning to wonder.”

 

“I’m safe,” Hermione sobbed openly into her father’s chest.

 

Her mother crossed the room and draped her arms around the two of them, crying herself. “You’re here because something awful has happened, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

 

Hermione could not stand to be in her parents’ presence, knowing what she was getting ready to do. The weight of the decision she had made for them was bearing down on her, nearly suffocating her as her two parents pressed themselves into her and each other. “I need to speak with the two of you. It is imperative that we do this quickly and efficiently.”

 

Her mother pulled back first, already placing her cupped hand over her mouth as tears of joy left her eyes and splashed over the front of her sleeping gown. The relief in the charmed green eyes tore at Hermione and a visceral cry wrenched from her mouth as she hugged her arms around herself and willed herself not to vomit.

 

Arthur and Molly took control at that point, rescuing Hermione from having to say the words aloud. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, please, if you would, sit here on the bed.”

 

“Would you like a cuppa? I can put on some tea—” her mother asked, ever the hostess.

 

“No, madam. I’m afraid Hermione is right—we must explain the situation to you and then act as swiftly as possible,” he told them, pressing her father’s shoulder in an effort to get him to sit next to his wife.

 

“What is going on?” her father demanded, sounding wholly frightened at the demeanor of the three magical beings.

 

“Oh, dear, please. Understand that what we are about to tell you is a decision Hermione made out of love and we support her in it,” Molly told them, pulling up a chair and conjuring two more.

 

She sat and tapped the chair next to her for Hermione to sit in. Arthur remained standing, watching out of the doorway to ensure they had not been followed. The window was boarded up, but he peered through a small crack between the slats as well. The Grangers watched his anxious pacing and peering, twin looks of worry twisting their faces. Molly took Mrs. Granger’s hand. “Staying here is no longer safe for the two of you.”

 

They both looked to their daughter, who hung her head and gnawed at her lip, each of her hands within one of her parents. “It’s true.”

 

“You told us if we uprooted our lives and came to live on this seaside, we would be safe until the War ended. It—it hasn’t ended?” her father asked, though he clearly knew the answer.

 

“No. It hasn’t even really begun. Alroy—he fouled up and gave up some information that has put you directly into harm’s way,” Hermione explained, her heart beating in her throat and constricting her air supply.

 

“We will have to be moved once more?” her mother asked, looking heartbroken already.

 

Hermione nodded once, her voice catching in her throat and refusing to come out. “There’s more,” Molly prompted, putting her free hand on Hermione’s back to rub soothing circles.

 

The young witch gathered every ounce of strength she still had and looked up to her parents’ faces. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat and steeled her features, trying to mask the severity of her emotions from the two people who knew her better than she knew herself most days. “You’ll have to go farther—much farther. To Australia. And—”

 

She stopped speaking for another brief moment, inhaling a stinging lungful of air. “And your memories of me will have to be wiped.”

 

Her parents stared at her for a long moment and Hermione held her breath. “Absolutely not,” her father finally told her, his voice firm.

 

“Memories of our Christmases together, of our camping trips—it’s all that has kept us going the last three bleak years cooped up in this madhouse!” her mother shrieked, growing hysterical.

 

“It can be reversed!” Hermione told them swiftly, hoping against hope that she was not lying to them.

 

“Hermione, you cannot expect us to go willingly. You’re—you’re asking us to allow you to practically kill yourself in our minds!” her father tried to reason, his eyes darting to Arthur pacing by the bedroom door.

 

“It’s more complicated than that,” Molly told them sadly. “She wouldn’t be dead to you. She’d be nonexistent. You won’t know you even had a daughter.”

 

“How could you ask us to do this, Hermione? Our lives together, completely obliterated?” her mother wept openly.

 

Molly took her mother into a warm embrace as Hermione tried to appeal once more to her father. “Daddy. I’ll be honest…I’m—I’m wiping your memories before I leave here today. The plan will be set forth in motion regardless. I couldn’t stand myself if something happened to you two because of me.”

 

“It is an unfair assumption that we would want this. Why can’t we just move to Australia and you can send for us when this War is completed. We look nothing like ourselves!” he returned, though the panic was clear on his face and Hermione knew he was resigning himself to his fate.

 

“It’s not enough! I cannot risk them finding you. They’re creating a holding camp for Muggle-borns, and they’re going to take the Muggle families of each one to try and draw us out of hiding. If they capture you and bring you to this place, they will kill you!” Hermione whispered, and her mother looked at her, tears welling in her eyes.

 

“You mean, like—”

 

“Yes, mum, it is exactly like what you are thinking,” Hermione told her, taking her hands once more. “We are running out of time. Please.”

 

Her father pulled her into a tight hug once more. “I don’t like this, Hermione. Not one bit.”

 

“It’s not exactly pleasant for me, daddy. But I’ve got to do this. You’ll be killed,” she bit back the sob that threatened to choke her once more. “I will wipe your memories and replace them with a new life. Then you’ll be placed under a temporary sleeping spell, during which time I will unwrap a portkey and move your hands to touch it. You’ll land in the yard of a home for sale in Sydney, an Australian Auror waiting to receive you and pretend to be an estate salesman. You’ll be Monica and Wendell Wilkins and you’ll own a sweets shop,” she explained, shooting an apologetic look toward her dentist parents.

 

“How long?” her mother asked and Hermione had to shrug.

 

She looked to Arthur, who turned away from the door only briefly to give her a sad nod. “I’m not sure. Could be a month, could be a year or more. The War is coming and I’m not sure who will make it out and what will happen. I just need you to be safe,” Hermione told her parents.

 

Arthur turned from the door and walked to where they all sat. “There really is not much time to speak on the matter. Please go willingly—it will be much more pleasant for you. We will all return to find you, as soon as it is safe.”

 

Her father rose and looked into Arthur’s eyes. “You’ll take care of my daughter?”

 

“As if she were my own,” he vowed, and Hermione wished that they weren’t all disguised—she would love to commit this moment to memory.

 

“We consider Hermione a part of our family. We cannot lie—we are facing a War and there will be dangers. And Hermione,” Molly looked up at her, “is not one to sit around idle while everyone else fights. But we will all try everything in our power to keep her safe.”

 

Her mother and Molly rose as well, and Hermione swiped at her face, wiping away trails of slick tears. “Molly, Arthur? Could you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

 

Molly gave her a kind and sorrowful half-smile and nodded. “Of course. I wish the two of you the best. And, as my husband said, when the time is right, and we have defeated the evils of our world, we will all come back for you and reverse all of this.”

 

The Grangers both nodded and Molly hugged them each in turn before leaving the room. Arthur shook Richard’s hand and hugged Helen. “Be careful out there. We’ll do our best to keep her safe here.”

 

He left the room as well, leaving Hermione alone with her parents. Though tears fell from her eyes in steady streams, no choking sobs left her body. “I love you both. You’ve been the best parents anyone could have ever asked for and no one could compare. I hope you’ll forgive me and try to understand where I am coming from. I don’t have much time—the portkey will expire in a few minutes.”

 

Her mother grabbed her up tightly once more, sobbing into Hermione’s oddly straight blonde hair. “I wish there were some other way.”

 

“I know. I know, mum. But if there were, we’d have thought of it. The Weasleys, Kingsley, Tonks, Remus, Andy…they’re all brilliant and they all agreed that this was the best course of action,” Hermione told her as her father wrapped his arms around she and her mother.

 

They stood for thirty seconds like that when Hermione felt the portkey pulse in her pocket—a warning. “We need to move,” her strained voice bit out.

 

“What do you want us to do?” her father asked, looking at her wand incredulously.

 

“Why don’t you lie on the bed? Make it as comfortable as possible,” Hermione instructed, waving her wand and transfiguring her parents’ sleepwear into something more suitable for the heat of Australia.

 

Her parents did as instructed, lying side by side on the bed, their hands clasped. Her mother was crying silently, and her father was staring at her wand in sheer horror of what would happen to them. Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It would be much easier if she did not have to stare at them while she worked, even if they were disguised to look like other people.

 

She removed the portkey from her pocket—a small coin wrapped in velvet. Concentrating on the task at hand. “I love you,” she repeated her earlier phrase.

 

“We love you, too. So, so much,” her mother replied.

 

“We’ll see you on the other side of this War,” her father said optimistically.

 

Hermione gave a single nod, her eyes focused on a floorboard as she concentrated on the bogus past she had constructed for the couple. She raised her wand and felt it trembling in her hand as she attempted to steel herself. She could do this—it was what _had_ to be done. Malfoy had instructed her to do this, based on his inside knowledge. The thought that he was leading her astray entered her brain, but she shook it away. Molly and Arthur trusted him, and he had given her no reason to assume that he was lying. He had advised her to get her parents far away from the impending danger.

 

With a frown and a determined set of her jaw, she quieted her mind enough to choke out, _“Obliviate!”_ between clenched teeth. She began with her father, carefully crafting a background story wherein he inherited enough money to finally make his lifelong dream of owning a sweets shop come to life. His eyes glazed over as she stripped all thoughts of herself from his brain and replaced them. Her mother watched him in silent horror until Hermione had completed the task. Hermione clenched her eyes as hard as she could muster, unwilling to look at the terror in her mother’s face at the sight of her husband losing his entire life.

 

Hermione then trained her wand on her mother, crafting a background as a ballet dancer who had broken her ankle and fallen in love with Wendell Wilkins whilst working in a diner. “I’m so sorry, mum. _Obliviate!”_ The new life story flooded out of her as they replaced Christmases of long ago and the memory of being pregnant with Hermione.

 

Hermione opened her eyes once more and both of her parents looked straight forward with matching dopey stares. “Who are you? And _where_ are we?” her father asked dazedly.

 

She flicked her wand twice and placed them both under a brief sleeping spell. Their hands were still loosely clasped, and she levitated the portkey coin to between their palms, careful not to touch one over the other. Once the coin was between their hands, she crossed the room and quickly gave them each a peck on the forehead before bringing their hands together swiftly. The instant their skin touched the smooth metal of the coin, they were gone in the blink of an eye.

 

Feeling utterly alone in the world, despite her friends, Hermione sat on the edge of the bed and hugged herself tightly. The sobs that now wracked her body were forceful, but completely silent. Arthur and Molly entered the room and came to sit on either side of her. Molly stroked her hair and Hermione buried her face in the elder witch’s neck. Arthur shushed her quietly and then gave her knee two taps of his hand. “Come on, we should get out of here.”

 

Hermione rose with them and sniffed. “I’m not ready to go home and face the others just yet. Do you think we could just go to the tavern in a nearby village and get a bite of breakfast? I’ve been there a few times before, when I couldn’t bear the thought of being hours away from my parents anymore.”

 

Arthur nodded, swiping his hand through his strongly-rooted black locks. “Sure. We can wait as long as you need.”

 

As they strode from the dilapidated house, the three shot spells and hexes in every direction, ruining the interior of the house to match the exterior. No Death Eater would be any wiser, should one happen to stumble into the home.

 

o-o-o

 

The first rays of light were shooting through the sky as Hermione and the Weasley parents, still incognito, sat at the corner table in the twenty-four-hour tavern. It was a Muggle establishment, so it surprised Hermione when she felt the ripple of magic around them. It felt inherently Dark and she grew uneasy quickly. “Do you feel that?” she whispered to the two individuals seated across from her.

 

Arthur lifted his head and tilted it toward the door, as if listening for something. “Someone’s here.”

 

Molly’s eyes scanned the interior of the dimly lit tavern as Arthur’s hand wrapped around his wand under the table. Hermione’s own hand wrapped around hers within her Muggle coat and she scanned the area near the door. A man, dressed as a pauper in a raggedy and moth-eaten wool coat and sporting a magnificently rugged beard, huddled alone at a table near the window.

 

He seemed to be doing the same as she and Molly, his eyes scanning the sparse patrons of the tavern until they landed right on her. They locked eyes and his mouth screwed into a horrific grimace of a grin, his lips stretching back over shockingly yellowed teeth. The only other people within the small establishment at this time of day were a pair of Muggle fishermen, a cook and a single waitress.

 

Hermione’s heart thumped within her chest as she searched his face uncertainly. “By the window. It has to be him.”

 

The Muggle men tossed a few coins onto the table and one downed the rest of his coffee before they took their leave. The wicked-looking man by the window smiled ever more menacingly as he stood from his seat. The hair on the back of Hermione’s arms stood like the hackles along a dog’s back. Her eyes darted to where the waitress, pleasantly unaware of the undercurrent of danger radiating through the room, pushed through the door and disappeared into the kitchen.

 

Hermione and the Weasleys were on their feet within mere seconds and the man sent a jet of bright purple light in their direction, Arthur deflecting it with a shield charm. The man, who had limped when he first stood, took an offensive dueling stance. Hermione watched as the waitress exited the kitchen, carrying their food and her eyes went big at the strange scene. She shot a shielding spell in the direction of the waitress, but she was too slow and his curse too powerful. The waitress fell, their food splashing over her front. Arthur and Molly both shot curses in the direction of the man and he easily deflected them all.

 

This Death Eater had no qualms about taking on three people by himself, a fact that chilled Hermione. He shot a sharp jet of white light toward them, powerful wordless magic breaking through Molly’s shield enough to rock her back on her heels. Hermione’s eyes did a quick scan of the area, searching for any sign of his partners. “We need to get out of here,” Arthur told them, shooting curses at the man. “If there’s one, the others will be close by!”

 

“What’s the matter? Afraid of a friendly little duel?” the man asked, his voice a lilted Cockney accent that Hermione could not place.

 

Her eyes shot to the door, where four more men entered, looking all too gleeful to be joining a fight. “I think we may have found the Malfoy boy! I smell his stench from here,” a tall, fearsome man said with a cackle.

 

His appearance was even more horrendous than the original Death Eater and he carried no wand. Fenrir Greyback—Voldemort’s werewolf hell-hound. Hermione’s blood ran cold, and she knew that Draco’s scent would be all over she and the Weasleys. She had never come in direct contact with the werewolf and she prayed like hell he could not detect another familiar scent on the three of them. Hermione silently thanked Merlin that she had showered twice since her last encounter with Remus, for his scent would surely give away their identities. 

 

There was no way of escaping this situation. They were outnumbered by fearless foot soldiers and a werewolf that was sniffing is way closer to them. Molly, bent forward in pain, used her free hand to grab Arthur’s. “Take my arm!” she instructed Hermione, who clasped her hand around Molly’s forearm.

 

Molly side-along apparated them to the compound and then her legs began to shake and wobble beneath her. Arthur caught her around the arms and helped lower her to the tall grass, the glamour charms wearing off almost immediately. “Go get the twins.”

 

Hermione carved her rune into the tree and reopened the wound she had drawn across her palm earlier that morning, letting her blood drip onto the knotty oak. The compound rose before her as she shrank in height to her original stance and her hair billowed behind her. She apparated into the men’s corridor. “Fred! George!” she called, rushing to their room.

 

There was the soft sound of an explosion within and then Fred opened the door. Upon seeing Hermione’s shaken countenance, his smirk disappeared into a concerned frown. “What’s happened?”

 

“Your mother, she’s been injured!” she gasped out, her breaths falling in shallow bursts.

 

“How?” George asked, pushing past them.

 

“A Death Eater appeared at the diner. Attacked us, three to one. As soon as his buddies showed up, we left. We were outnumbered,” Hermione told them as they ran across the field toward where Arthur was leaning over his wife.

 

“She’s okay. The curse removed a few ribs and a shoulder blade, I believe,” Arthur told them and the twins sprang into action, Fred conjuring a stretcher from a blade of glass and George worrying over his mother

 

 in much the same manner she worried over everyone else.

 

Arthur straightened where he stood and began walking after the levitating stretcher, a harsh limp in his step. “Did you get hit as well?” Hermione asked him, placing her arm under his to help brace him as they walked.

 

“The curse that hit Molly must have reverberated back and I got a residual hit. Nothing to worry over. We’ll brew a batch of Skele-gro and she’ll be in top shape by morning,” Arthur replied, though his voice sounded strained.

 

Hermione sighed, guilt consuming her. It was her fault that the Weasley parents had been with her in Wales. It was because of her silly inability to return to her friends that they had been seated at that table in the tavern that morning. They entered the living quarters and Fred levitated the stretched to the couch. He and George lifted their mother magically from the stretcher to the couch as she winced and clenched her jaw. She refused to cry out in pain, though she was clearly experiencing a great deal of it.

 

“We need to brew a fresh batch of Skele-gro,” Hermione announced to no one in particular, sprinting to the makeshift potions station that rested along one wall in the commons area.

 

She dug through vials and glass apothecary jars in search of pufferfish spines. Coming across a jar that contained only two, she groaned and smacked her hand against the tabletop. “No! Shit. _Shit!_ ”

 

They lacked a third spine and deliveries from their Healer connection took days to obtain. “You could substitute the crushed fang of an Indian king cobra for the third spine,” came a deep voice from behind her.

 

Hermione spun around and clasped her hands to the edge of the table. Malfoy stood, his hands deep in his pockets and clad in the same jumper and joggers he had worn the last time she had seen him. His hair was mussed and his face ghastly pale with deep violet rings around his eyes. He looked as a man who had faced death and just barely lived to tell the tale. Her eyes narrowed, and the room grew completely quiet as he took another soft step toward Hermione. Every set of eyes watched him approach her workbench. “The fang would mimic the same sedative effect you’d achieve with the pufferfish spine.”

 

Malfoy stepped around her and lifted a few vials and jars until he found a cobra fang. “Here. Just crush it into a fine powder with your mortar and pestle. But make sure you wear dragon-hide gloves. Just coming in contact with it would kill you.”

 

His tone was condescending, his speech slow as he spoke to Hermione. She stared at him, just as the others did, and realized that her baffled silence was not helping her case any. She snapped her jaw closed and lifted her chin. “I knew that, of course.”

 

“Of course. That’s why you were having a tantrum when I walked over,” he drawled lazily.

 

“Don’t you have a small animal to sacrifice or a pair of lungs to ruin?” she questioned, not anywhere near being in the mood to deal with his attitude.

 

“Well, I haven’t been able to go outside to catch any rabbits recently—I fear my animal sacrificing abilities may be _a touch_ rusty. And my lungs are as healthy as can be. I dare say I could hold my breath under water much more efficiently than anyone in this room,” Malfoy replied, leaning back against the workbench beside where she stood and crossing his arms.

 

The twins were gaping at the interaction between the two and Arthur was busy getting Molly’s arm into a sling. Hermione grit her teeth and rolled her eyes. Why, of all days, did he have to get out of bed on _this_ day? She was exhausted—a deep set exhaustion that rattled her bones and chattered her teeth—from her morning spent obliviating her parents and warding off Death Eaters. She did not have the time or the patience to deal with a rogue defecting Death Eater with a tongue like a razor and sarcasm that dripped thicker than molasses.

 

His astute gaze watched over her shoulder as she pulled on a pair of dragon-hide gloves and she retrieved her old granite mortar and pestle. The _Complete Volume of Healing Potions_ lay on the table in front of her and Hermione gave it a single tap with her wand and smirked as the pages fell open to the bone regenerating potion. She placed the fang into the mortar and began to grind away, breaking it first into smaller pieces. “Don’t stir clockwise. Stir _anti-_ clockwise.”

 

“I don’t think it particularly matters which way I grind the ingredients,” Hermione bit out through clenched teeth. “The book doesn’t state any specifics.”

 

“It absolutely matters. If you do not respect the potion’s ingredients, how can you expect the potion to give you the effects you desire? Here,” Malfoy came around her and took the mortar and pestle from her hands. He opened a drawer and found a worn pair of gloves and pulled one on his right hand.

 

“I need better potions brewing instruments than this nonsense,” he muttered under his breath and Hermione was getting ready to open her mouth to argue when he whispered a sticking charm and the mortar firmly settled itself on the tabletop before him, unmoving.

 

His bandaged left arm still tucked into his waist, he used his right to grind the fang down. Hermione watched with swift annoyance at his deft ability and the ease with which he worked, even with only one hand. While he worked, the fang began to emit a pearlescent sheen like finely ground glitter. “See, _anti-_ clockwise. Had you continued clockwise, you wouldn’t have this lovely shine. The fang will be more potent now.”

 

Hermione huffed, agitated at having been shown up by him in potions, even with his godfather dead and buried. “Where did you learn that?” she questioned begrudgingly.

 

“I may be a fool when it comes to most anything, but I _do_ have a gift when it comes to brewing potions of all kinds. Or did you not notice that I bested you each year in that _one_ class?” the blond wizard asked, a deep smirk spreading across his face.

 

She dumped the crushed fang into the cauldron, the solvent bubbling and roiling at the contact. Malfoy reached around her with his healthy arm and lifted the two pufferfish barbs, dropping them in between her _anti-_ clockwise stirs at ten second intervals. “I can brew a perfectly decent bone regenerating potion, Malfoy,” she told him, giving him an impatient glare.

 

“Yes, yes. No doubt, what with your complete lack of respect of the individual ingredients that go _into_ a singular potion,” he retorted, leaning over the cauldron to closely smell the aroma being emitted.

 

“When did you get out of bed?” Hermione asked, swatting his hands away from where she was crushing scarab beetle shells.

 

“You lot weren’t exactly quiet when you entered,” he said by way of answering, though he looked over his shoulder at where Molly lay, a deep frown setting his features.

 

“Terribly sorry to have disturbed your slumber with our injured ranks,” Hermione spit, feeling her anger rise.

 

“How did she come to be injured?” he inquired, his derisive tone gone and his voice even.

 

Hermione mirrored his actions and look to where Molly lay, her eyes screwed up in pain and they watched as George spread a blanket over her. She sighed, feeling that earlier guilt returning with a vengeance. “We went to a tavern in a Muggle village a few towns over.”

 

Malfoy’s features darkened, and anger flashed in his pewter eyes. “How could you be so irresponsible? How could the Weasleys? Did I not warn you?”

 

Hermione shrank slightly under his intense questioning, though he was hissing the words at her, his back to the others. “I wasn’t ready to come back here just yet. I was pretty shaken up after my parents... There had been no other detections of magic of any kind in the house or in the village where we went. Absolutely nothing. Until the man sat down by the window. And then—then we could _feel_ the Dark Magic.”

 

“I told you, Granger. _I told you_. The Death Eaters are in full force, destroying small villages and killing Muggles,” he reminded her viciously.

 

“We had our guards up the entire time, wands in hands, eyes surveying the perimeter. We _do_ leave here often enough and take our chances. Life goes on, even in the midst of War, Malfoy.”

 

“Still, _constant vigilance_. Did Moody teach you _nothing_ before he died?”

 

“You never even knew Moody—you knew Barty Crouch, Jr. _polyjuiced_ as Mad-Eye—”

 

“Yes, well, he must have gotten some of his mannerisms and phrasing right. He managed to trick our professors, some of whom were _original_ Order members, I might add.”

 

“And, our _constant vigilance_ saved our lives today. If we hadn’t been aware of our surroundings and spotted danger, we would have been killed,” Hermione replied, watching as her potion turned a faint greenish hue, a side effect of the substituted fang.

 

Malfoy closed his mouth, though Hermione could tell he had plenty more to say. In truth, she felt like his words had some merit. The Order members snuck away by cover of darkness to do many activities—to retrieve potions and healing ingredients, to retrieve their monthly rations of food from the local magical farmers, some still reported to their mundane jobs, so long as they were not employed by the Ministry. This was not a necessary mission, and so the guilt would eat away at her until Molly was back to being healthy and fretting over everyone.

 

“There’s more,” she whispered, busying her hands as they shook lightly. “The werewolf was with the group of Death Eaters—he picked up your scent.”

 

Malfoy’s eyes widened and shot to her, studying her face for signs of deception. “Did he recognize you? Was he able to draw conclusions on who you three were?” he asked urgently.

 

Hermione shook her head, her curls bouncing as she did. “No. I don’t believe so. He was trying to, getting closer to us from across the tavern. He only mentioned you and then we were gone.”

 

Her explanation did nothing to quell his sudden anxiety, though he tried to put on his arrogantly nonchalant mask once more. “It’s of little consequence. The Dark Lord will learn of my betrayal and defecting soon enough, particularly if you all let me have my way and I am the first in line on the battle field.”

 

From the corner of her eye, Hermione watched as he ran his hand over the bandages on his arm. His grey eyes surveyed the injured limb and he tucked it closer to himself. The violet rings around his eyes seemed to have darkened just in the few moments since they had begun interacting and his energy was nearing spent. “What is going on with you?” she asked him quietly. “Really?”

 

He leaned his hip against the work bench and looked down at her. Even bent slightly as his body was wracked with pain, he still stood nearly a foot taller than her. “Not that you would have been listening to me, since you seem to have a fucking mental block when I open my mouth, but I’ve already told you that the Dark magic is leaving my body.”

 

“I thought Dark magic was inherent, something you’re born and bred into,” she remarked, pulling some of their homemade Skele-gro into a glass vial.

 

“What, like a show pony?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Everyone has the capacity to be both Light and Dark, and a little more of one or the other. The magic that flows through my veins, and through yours, it isn’t inherently _anything_. Except, perhaps, powerful. It’s _how_ you _choose_ to use that magic that makes you either Light or Dark. You think because my father was a Death Eater and capable of murder, clearly a Dark wizard, that I should be the same, simply because his blood runs through my veins? Or perhaps worse, with Black blood surging through me as well?”

 

“I suppose you’re right. Though, I would be more apt to use Sirius Black as a shining example of your theory, rather than yourself,” she argued without feeling and without bite.

 

“Whatever you need to say to cut me down and make yourself feel better, Granger,” he sighed, fed up with her attitude just as much as she was of his. “The Dark magic that is leaving my body is a lingering effect of the Mark.”

 

He stepped away from her, heading back toward his room once more just as Ron and Harry came through the door. “What happened?” Ron asked worriedly, as Harry shook frost from his hair.

 

The pair had been out to meet their farmer, each wielding bags upon bags of magically maintained fruits and vegetables. Ron rushed to his mother’s side, his bags of apples falling hastily to the floor, sending fruit to roll about. “We met a few of our foes in a Muggle tavern after we left Hermione’s parents’ hideaway,” Arthur explained, sitting next to Molly as Hermione walked over with a freshly brewed batch of Skele-gro.

 

“It’s no longer safe to leave alone, to go anywhere unnecessary, or to dawdle in any one place too long,” the curly-haired witch told them, holding the vial to Molly’s lips.

 

“What’s happened to mum? What kind of curse hit her?” Ron asked, pushing Fred and George aside to fret over his mother.

 

“A bone disintegrating hex. Hit a couple of ribs and her shoulder blade. Er—Malfoy helped me brew a quick regenerating potion,” she told them awkwardly.

 

“Malfoy?” Harry questioned, his brow knitting together as he levitated the spilled fruits back into their sacks.

 

“He actually does know quite a bit about potions,” the witch replied begrudgingly.

 

“Maybe he’ll be useful after all,” Ron bit out, his mood sour as he watched Hermione administer the Skele-gro to his mother’s ashen lips.

 

“He’s _been_ of use to us, Ronald Bilius. I won’t stand for your negativity,” his mother scolded around her wincing.

 

Hermione retrieved a damp cloth from the bathroom and then put a freezing charm on it, effectively turning it into a makeshift icepack. “Lift up, Molly,” she told her tenderly. “This will numb the pain some.”

 

The elder witch did as she was told—a true sign that she was injured more severely than she let on, as she would never let any of her children fret over her so much if she were healthy. Hermione turned to the others and shooed them away. “Go on. She needs rest. It takes a lot of deep sleep and energy to regrow bones.”

 

The twins, with identical frowns, were the first to go. Ron stood and gave his mother a half-smile. “I guess there’s no hope of a decent meal for dinner, eh? Not with any of us cooking!”

 

Molly gave him a weak smile and then turned her head toward the back of the couch, a gentle dismissal. Ron looked at Hermione with eyes that were shinier than normal, though he did not shed a tear. She smiled a small, encouraging smile and held out her hand to her oldest friend. Harry reentered the living quarters, having brought all of the produce to the pantries and cooling chests in the kitchens across the courtyard.

 

“Let’s go to our room, eh? I’m sure you want to get everything off your chest,” Ron said soothingly, leading her by the hand toward the room he and Harry now shared.

 

o-o-o

 

Draco’s ability to hold himself upright for any length of time was slowly diminishing the longer he stood, vacantly staring at the mirror above the sink basin. He had overexerted himself physically for the day and his mind was nearly as frazzled. He bent to splash cool water over his face with his one hand, silently cursing himself simultaneously for not ruining enough blood vessels to bleed out completely and for cutting _too_ deeply and crippling himself.

 

He patted a towel against his face tiredly and then opened the door to go. The sound of muffled voices caused him to pause, craning his head toward the cracked door across the corridor to get a better clarity. It was the voices of the Golden Trio themselves, huddled in Potter’s room.

 

“…it was awful…they begged…me not to,” Granger’s feminine squeak broke the silence.

 

“You did the right thing, ‘Mione. Even if it doesn’t seem like it right now,” Weasley comforted her and there was a rustling of fabric and Draco knew that he was likely rubbing his hand over her back.

 

Potter cleared his throat. “Yeah, especially if the Death Eaters were that close. They could have found them!”

 

“They were looking for Mal-Malfoy,” the witch hiccupped.

 

“I say we toss his arse out in the middle of Diagon Alley with an obliviation of his own,” Weasley told the other two.

 

Potter muttered something that sounded like an agreement, but Granger sighed. “You know we can’t do that. He _defected_.”

 

“He’s a prick,” Potter mentioned and there was a knocking noise that sounded like a headboard clapping against the wall.

 

“I don’t disagree with that. But he has also provided us with useful information,” Granger pointed out. “ _And_ , his tip about grinding the cobra fang anti-clockwise _was_ rather helpful.”

 

“Merlin, ‘Mione. Don’t ever tell _him_ that. His ego is big enough as it is,” Weasley said with a derisive snort. “The sack on him—to come to _us_ for help and still manage to look down on all of us like we’re beneath him.”

 

There was a feminine tutting and Granger clicked her tongue once. “Your father must have seen something in his mind the day he was interrogated. Because he keeps reminding us that Malfoy is _lonely_ and _thirsty for revenge._ ”

 

“Dad’s gone off his rocker,” Weasley retorted.

 

Draco was growing angrier at the jibes, but he knew that confronting the ginger-haired git so early on was not the way to earn a spot within the Order’s ranks. He heard the sound of sniffling once more and then Potter’s strained voice. “Don’t cry, Hermione. We’ll bring them back. After the War is over.”

 

“How long will that be, Harry? Six months? A year? Five years?” she sobbed, and Draco raised one pale eyebrow.

 

 _How long indeed._ He wished he could march right into that room and tell the trio that their merry band of rebels did not stand a chance against the Dark Lord’s plans. But to admit that would be to admit that he had possibly defected for no reason. That he had such little hope left within him anymore, that he had shown up for nothing more than a warm bed and the chance to exist without being hexed or killed by his so-called friends and alliances.

 

“I’m not sure, Hermione. I keep getting the feeling that we are missing something. That the locket has something to do with it. But the more I stare at that damn necklace, the more I just want to pull my hair out,” Potter told her with a long-suffering sigh.

 

 _What locket?_ Draco opened the bathroom door all the way, but the friends had quieted to contemplative silence. He passed by the crack in the door and could see the three, Weasley and Potter sandwiching Granger, sitting against the headboard. Weasley had his head back against the wood and Potter had his arm around Granger as she leaned into his chest and openly wept.

 

Draco felt a slight pang in his chest and quickly swallowed it down. _Loneliness._ He scoffed bitterly. What a foolish concept. He was a strong and powerful wizard who needed no one but himself. Getting attached to others—like his parents, and even Astoria—brought nothing but disappointment when they left this life. Draco was like a lone wolf, a beast without his pack.

 

He crept back to his room and slid under the covers, cracking his window once more as he bundled under the blankets and hugged the warmth to himself. Granger had actually followed his advice—he was shocked that she had complied so easily. He knew that telling her of the Mourning Fields had been a risky endeavor—one that would get him killed had any of the imbecilic Death Eaters they had encountered that morning bothered with Legilimency. Draco also knew that, in order to get Granger to listen to reason, one had to be blunt and to the point. She may cry and weep like an Empath, but deep within her, she had the fierce heart of a lion and the cunning of a snake.

 

o-o-o 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

Draco woke to a shaft of sunlight shining through the curtains of his room. After a few groggy blinks, he sensed the presence of someone else in the room. Soft, even breaths sounded beside him and then there was the scratchy sound of fingertips on parchment. He turned his head away from the window to find Granger seated in a chair next to his bed. "Are you watching me sleep now?" he questioned, stretching his torso long and bumping his good hand on the headboard as his other arm draped over his abdomen.

A few joints popped, and he let out a groan. The pain was not too insufferable this morning—it was nearly manageable. He winced as he dragged his legs over the side of the bed to face her. Granger raised an eyebrow at him and lowered the book she had been reading. "Hardly. I was coming to check your wound, but you were still sleeping. I'd rather not awaken a slumbering beast."

"You awaken _nothing_ in me, Granger," he retorted, holding his arm out to her.

She rolled her eyes as she came to sit directly next to him on the bed, turning to face him as she drew one bent leg up. The witch worked silently to undress the bandages and he stared at the floorboards while she did. Flashes of her crying into Potter's chest while being comforted by Weasley burned behind his eyes.

He doubted either of those two half-wits even understood the depth of the sacrifice she had made in obliviating her parents. Potter may have had a better inkling, seeing as he had grown up an orphan, though that very fact may have kept him from fully appreciating the situation. But Weasley was likely daft to it entirely—optimistic that everything would work out for her and her parents in the end.

Draco knew there was a rather high probability that she would never be able to restore their memories. And yet, Granger had still listened to his advice. She had sacrificed her happiness and memories with them in order to spare them the horror they would surely face if ever captured.

The witch had gumption and bravery, there was no doubt about that. Against his better judgment, Draco admired that about her. She embodied everything he only wished he could experience. He had lacked the courage to make better choices and instead resigned himself to a life as a Death Eater. Only after everything had been stripped from him and he had lost his only reason to live had he finally worked up the nerve to break free. His one act of bravery did nothing to quell the feelings of cowardice and self-loathing he felt every moment of every day he continued to breath precious oxygen. He would die in this War, no doubt. But he was damn determined to make sure he took as many vile cretins out with him as possible.

"Neville will be passed shortly to bring us some supplies. We've obtained some mermaid scales—you owe us in a major way. Those scales cost the Order a small fortune," Granger said, finally breaking the silence.

Draco's eyes darted to hers and he studied her for any sign of deception. He had known it was a dragonfly's chance in a windstorm that Granger would actually be able to find enough scales to cover his decrepit arm. But the witch had actually come through for him. He had no idea how to react to her veritable kindness. "Don't look so shocked, Malfoy. I told you I would try to find some. And I know it's taken me a few days, but I found them. Neville will bring them by," she told him with a haughty and smug grin spreading across her face.

The wizard eyed her curiously for a few long moments before he sighed. "I'm honestly not used to people following through on their word. Well, at least not to accomplish desirable means. The Dark Lord followed through on every one of his threats," he told her quietly, running a hand over a patch of scars near the center of his chest.

Granger's eyes darted to where he touched before she looked determinately at his arm. "I'm going to keep this exposed to open air until the scales arrive—I brought a salve that I concocted to apply to it. I'm not entirely sure since this is all experimental, but I believe this salve may help bind the scales to your flesh."

"What is it made of exactly?" he questioned, more out of curiosity than apprehension.

She pulled a small dollop out with a finger—a protective barrier charmed over her hand so she would not come in direct contact with his open wound—and began rubbing it into the exposed muscle. "You know—a little of this, a little of that. Echinacea, comfrey, resin from an ancient pine, calendula…the usual."

Draco could smell the sweet scent of the salve and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The scent of calendula reminded him of the healing lotion his mother always rubbed over any injuries he caused himself as a boy. Memories of him crashing on his first real broom, straight into the branches of an old yew tree, flooded his mind. His mother had been furious with his father for buying him the broom and had proceeded to tear Lucius up one side and down the other as she tended to the numerous cuts and scrapes across his seven-year-old body. She then sang him his favorite lullaby in Gaelic as she ran her wand across the cuts, sealing them and bringing him comfort.

When he reopened his eyes, Granger was staring at him with a peculiar and curious look written across her features. "I miss my parents, too," she told him in a hoarse whisper.

Draco cleared his throat and rose from where she had finished her work. "Yes, well, don't think we're going to bond over our parentless woes, Granger. You can leave now," he told her.

"You don't always have to be such a rude, baseless prat," she scolded, gathering her Healing items quickly.

As she went to the door, he moved to close it behind her when a strange laugh stopped him. There was a loud squeal and the peel of an infant's laughter. "What on earth is that raucous?" he questioned, wrinkling his nose at the sound.

"That's Teddy," Granger said by way of explanation, her tone still cross.

"Nymphadora's child?" he surmised.

"Andy is here as well," the witch called over her shoulder as she continued to pad down the hall.

Draco closed his door and sat on the edge of the bed. Aunt Andromeda had been nothing but kind to him since he had landed precariously in her life. He desired to see her once more, strangely enough. Her presence brought him an ease he had not felt in years. But to venture out of this room was to risk seeing the others and he thought he would rather saw his own arm off completely than to face Potter or Weasley this early in the day.

With a glance at the clock, he noted that it was nearly eleven. His stomach seemed to realize this at the same instant, for it let out a grumble loud enough to drown out his sigh. How long had it been since he had eaten? Granger typically brought him a small plate or bowl of food, but he had avoided eating any of it the last couple of days. The effects of the Dark magic leaving his body made Draco wish most days that he _had_ died.

 _Fuck._ He would have to leave the room to find sustenance anyway. With an exaggerated groan, he pulled a t-shirt over his head and opened his door once more. Listening for voices, he heard only three females and the baby. _Splendid._ Draco could face Andromeda, Granger, and Molly. He walked quietly down the hall, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"…and Bill have offered Shell Cottage as another safe house," Molly was telling the other two.

"How kind of them, to offer up their future marital home to us," Andromeda replied. "Such a shame to have to give up privacy in light of their pending nuptials."

"Harry is keeping Grimmauld Place open," Granger told them. "So, we've got three safe houses, and a small group who will be the eyes and ears at Hogwarts."

"I have a fourth option as well," Andromeda supplied. "A hideaway I crafted into the side of a cliff in Dover. I created it when I received death threats from my family shortly after my marriage to Ted. It hasn't been utilized in years, but I'm sure it would be suitable to hold a small group of us."

Draco chose this moment to emerge from the dark corridor and into the warmth of the Commons area. The two older witches were sitting side by side on a rugged and worn couch, while Granger sat on the floor, beckoning forth a crawling baby with bright turquoise hair. Three pairs of eyes darted to where he stood awkwardly shoving his right hand into his pocket while the other hung limply by his side. Molly was the first to break. "Draco, dear, are you hungry? I was just getting ready to make some finger sandwiches for lunch."

Draco shrugged one shoulder slightly. "I could stand to eat."

Molly smiled kindly and stood gingerly, holding her arms around her ribs, before apparating to the kitchen. Andromeda patted the seat Molly had vacated. "Come and sit next to me, nephew. We have plenty of catching up to do."

Granger caught his eye as she shook a toy at the baby but said nothing more. He ambled lazily to sit next to his aunt. She handed him a cup of tea, of which he took a sip. The child turned to look at him and smiled a big babyish grin before his hair turned as silvery blond as Draco's and his eyes went grey. Draco felt his own go wide and he sputtered over his sip of tea and began coughing. Andromeda laughed merrily next to him and clapped a hand on his back. "A glimpse into what your future children may look like, huh?"

Draco looked over at her and wiped a drop of tea from his chin. "That is unsettling."

"He's a metamorphmagus, just like his mother," Andromeda explained, wiggling her fingers and cooing fondly at her grandson.

Draco stared at the child, whose wide eyes sparkled up at him as they transformed once more to a less unnerving shade of blue and his hair shined a bright violet. There was a heaviness that settled itself over his heart as he realized that this child was his family, that Aunt Andromeda and Tonks were family. But his parents' blood prejudice had deprived him of the chance to know them. She was running a soothing hand over his back, the same exact way his mother used to do when he was upset or crying, and he realized that he was not entirely alone in this world. His aunt did not question their relation, accepted him without a single qualm.

Granger, however, did not look so accepting. Her lips were pursed as she watched Teddy crawl across the floor toward Draco. He smirked, knowing her terse mood was because of their earlier exchange. When Teddy reached Draco, he balled his pant leg up in his tiny fist, using the fabric to pull himself into a standing position. The wizard leaned away from him, looking down his pointed nose to the infant. "He won't bite, Draco…well, at least not hard. He'll kind of gum you," Andromeda told him, moving to lift the child.

She set him on Draco's knee and took his teacup as he put a hand behind Teddy's back to hold him upright, staring at the child with thinly veiled disgust. Andromeda and Granger both laughed. "It's just a baby, Malfoy. And he's got a fresh nappy, so you don't have to worry about that. So why on earth do you look like he's the most repugnant thing you've ever seen?"

Draco glanced down at the child who tilted in a boyish manner and rested into his chest as though they were not perfect strangers. "I just don't have many dealings with children."

"None of your Pureblood alliances had children?" Granger questioned, turning over a rattle in her hands.

"Purebloods breed, not parent," Andromeda informed her snidely. "Narcissa coddled him incessantly, but I assure you, the typical Pureblood parenting model is to bring heirs into the world and have them raised by au pairs and house elves until they reach Hogwarts age."

Draco nodded his agreement, once again thinking of the ways his mother would show him affection. He sighed, running his hand over his face. Today was clearly not going to be an easy day. Try as he might, he could not scrub the memories from his mind. Molly reappeared, levitating a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade. She walked carefully, but Draco noted that she appeared to have all of her bones once more.

"You're looking much better than a couple of days ago," he told her, taking a proffered sandwich.

"I understand you lent a helping hand to our Hermione here," she told him kindly, moving to sit in the empty armchair. "I cannot thank you enough for your assistance."

Draco shrugged, unaccustomed to receiving praise for his work. "You helped me when I arrived. It was only right."

Molly seemed to be brimming with excitement as she sipped her lemonade. She exchanged a glance with Andromeda and Draco narrowed his eyes. "What?" he snipped, feeling out of the loop.

Apparently, Granger was not privy to the secret being exchanged because she pursed her lips and furrowed her brow as she looked between the two elder witches. Molly smiled wide and set her glass down. "We've got an area where we would like to build a greenhouse and a small outside garden. Where we could grow the necessary plants and herbs needed for helpful potions."

Draco sat back at this information, Teddy's weight settled comfortably in the middle of his chest as he took a small bite of his sandwich. The child touched his wound and Andromeda swatted his hand. "No, no, Teddy. No touching Draco's spots."

The child withdrew his hand and Draco tried to tuck his arm into himself. He looked back at Molly. "A greenhouse? That's excellent. I can brew nearly all Healing potions and quite a few others that may be of assistance in battle."

Andromeda nodded. "There's a room off of the end of the men's corridor where I thought we could create a makeshift potions lab for you."

Granger's mouth fell open and then she let out a huff. Molly shot her a warning glace and then smiled a tense smile that told the young witch to stifle her remark. "If you are going to stay with us here at the Compound, it would be beneficial for you to have something to keep yourself active. And we need someone who can brew unique or tricky potions—our funding is getting lower as each day passes, and we can hardly afford to purchase some of the rarer ingredients."

Draco processed the information, knowing that his mermaid scales likely set them back a healthy chunk. He almost felt guilty, but a quick glance at his mangled flesh had him quickly swallowing that guilt down. "Neville is going to assist you in maintaining the greenhouse and growing whatever you may need."

"I can do the work myself," Draco argued with the affronted tone that of a petulant child.

"We're aware. But Neville will assist you," Andromeda said finally.

Draco sighed and kept his mouth shut, knowing that too much adversity might cost him the gift they were generously bestowing upon him. "Can I see the room?"

Andromeda moved to lift Teddy from Draco's lap, but the child wrapped his arms around Draco's neck, whining in protest. The blond waved her away with his healthy arm. "I'll carry him," he told her, standing on shaky legs.

There was a stomping noise and the door to the Commons area opened, revealing both Potter and Weasley in the doorway. Draco nearly groaned in irritation at their intrusion. They both looked in on the scene, eyeing Draco Malfoy holding a small child, flanked by three witches. "Having a hen party, Malfoy?" Potter asked snidely, stepping out of his heavy dragon hide boots.

"Harry," Molly warned, causing the messy haired git to roll his eyes.

"I'm only taking the mickey out of him, Molly."

"Well don't. He's not even well enough to defend himself," the redheaded witch told him, sending her son a severe glance, her hands on her hips.

"Hey, I didn't even say anything," he told her, his hands up on either side of his chest.

"Yet," Andromeda finished for him, sweeping around Draco to lead them down the corridor.

Draco glowered at the two wizards, an imperial smile gracing his features as he followed his aunt. Potter rolled his eyes as Weasley tossed a rude gesture up toward him. They followed behind Draco, curious as to where they were all headed. Andromeda opened the door that sat at the very end of the corridor facing them and stepped inside, gesturing for Draco to join her.

"We thought this nice long table would be good for potions making. There's enough space for you to lay out ingredients, to chop and grind them and then for a decent sized cauldron," Molly told him.

"Hold on, I've been trying to get this room as my own ever since _he_ arrived, so I don't have to share with Harry. And you're just giving it to him?" Weasley complained, sounding incredibly put out.

"You will make him feel welcome here, Ronald. Or Merlin help you," his mother chided, and Draco rolled his eyes.

Studying the room, he noted that there were low bookshelves lining one wall. A third wall was bathed in sunlight from the window across the way—perfect for creating hanging garden and potion storage. "Why _are_ you doing this?" Draco asked, eyeing the room with a sense of skepticism.

"You've defected, and you are an incredibly intelligent wizard. The knowledge your mind contains, both in potions crafting and in combat, will no doubt help to turn the tides in our favor," his aunt told him.

There was some deeper, underlying reason, there had to be. Some angle he was not quite grasping as his body still fought to stave off illness. These witches were attempting to trick him in some way and he did not appreciate it one bit. He had fought his way out of the bowels of Hell, just to land in some mocking trap pieced together by the supposed Light. No one was going to gift him a room and a greenhouse in which to busy himself after he had brutally murdered his wife and acted as the opposition's Interrogator for years.

Draco pulled Teddy's arms from around his neck and pushed him back toward his grandmother. "I don't know what kind of game you lot are trying to play with me. But I am far too exhausted to try and riddle this out. I came to you all for assistance and to offer my assistance in return. I do not care to be mocked."

With that, he stormed out of the room and through his door, the one closest to the makeshift potions lab. "Malfoy, no one is trying to insult you," Potter tried to reason just before Draco slammed the door.

He huffed, feeling his chest constrict painfully. He was still far too weak to deal with this level of stress. Draco went to his nightstand and retrieved his last cigarette. Pointing his wand at it, he mumbled a simple gemino charm and his cigarette doubled. He continued until he had a healthy stack of them and then lifted the charm.

Draco waved his wand toward the window and grabbed the blanket from the bed, wrapping himself tightly against the bitter cold as he lit the cigarette with the end of his wand. The only person who had ever been unconditionally kind to Draco in his life had been his mother. Sure, there had been lackeys, people who were nice to him because of his father's powerful status and then people who were cordial out of fear. But no one had ever committed a kind gesture for him out of sheer goodness of heart.

He was once the Order's perceived enemy. He had defected only a little over a week prior, and since then, his only interactions had been with those three witches and wizards who wanted to interrogate him. Why would they accept him so readily? Even if he was no longer public enemy number one in their eyes, they should still be wary of him. There was absolutely no way they were just giving him free reign of an entire room and a greenhouse, just for the hell of it.

Anger at their deception began to course through Draco. He had given himself over to these people, offered up what little remained of himself. He had very little to offer this world—no money, no home, no luck, no clout. All he had was his ability to create masterful potions and a strong, ancient magic that coursed through his veins. And they had played on what few emotions he had left and used trickery and deceit to get him to trust them.

Breathing out a massive cloud of smoke, Draco dropped his head back against the wooden backrest and closed his eyes. Between his ailment and his fury, his breaths were falling from his lips in shallow puffs of mist against the cool winter air. A shiver wracked his entire body and he drew the blankets tighter around himself, whispering a sticking charm to keep them closed so he could continue to smoke with his one hand.

Cursing the emotions that flowed freely within him as he sat alone, he tried to clear the crowding from his mind. His mother's face dancing tauntingly behind his eyelids, the sweet smell of the salve prominent from within the confines of the comforter.

" _Draco Lucius, I do not know how many times I have told you to stop trying to show off for Theo and Greg. Every time you attempt some dunderheaded move, you get all these bumps and bruises," Narcissa scolded, running her wand over a split in his forehead._

" _I'm sorry, mum. But Theo climbed up four branches and I knew I could get higher than him—and I did," Draco told her, wincing as she touched the wound._

" _Stop mollycoddling the boy, Cissy. He's a strong lad—like his father," Lucius said lightly, looking over the top of his newspaper to where she was tending him._

" _I am not mollycoddling, Luc. But if he keeps up with these careless acts, he's going to get seriously injured!" she retorted, rising from where she sat. "All done, Draco. And do be careful this time."_

_His mother kissed the area where she had closed the cut and he hopped down from the ottoman. Theo was waiting in the doorway, looking entirely too sheepish. Draco ran toward him, and Lucius laughed behind him as his mother sighed._

There was a light knock at the door and Andromeda peered into his room. "May I come in?" she asked politely, though Draco knew he did not really have the option of denying her.

He shrugged and blew another cloud of smoke toward the open window. Andromeda wrinkled her nose but said nothing of his vice. Instead, she sat primly on the edge of his bed, next to where he had his feet propped up. "Draco, what was that back there?"

He glanced in her direction and ground his teeth. "I do not appreciate being made a mockery of, Aunt Andromeda."

"How are we making a mockery of you?" she questioned, her tone still politely conversational.

Draco looked her squarely in the face. "I'm no fool. These people do not know me. Up until a week ago, they feared me—and if their sidelong looks in my direction are any indicator, they still suspect me. There is no reason why any of them—or you, for that matter—should want to do anything kind for me."

His aunt stared at him for a long moment and he began to grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She was younger looking than both his mother and Bellatrix, though she was the middle sister. Her hair, the same unsettling dark shade as his Aunt Bella's, was pulled into a low chignon. Her back was ramrod straight and her hands primly crossed. Andromeda may have run from her family at the first opportunity presented to her, but she still carried all of the poise and dignity that his mother had shown until her very last day. "I cannot begin to understand the psychological and physical torture you've had to endure these last few years. You may have chosen to walk amongst the monsters, in order to save your family. But I can see beyond that, Draco. You have all of the strength and love of your mother within you."

"You're family—you obviously would be quicker to accept me," he argued.

"No, we, collectively, are the Light that opposes the Darkness you've been seeped in your entire life. All of us. We would be no different than _him_ if we just banished you because of your background," she told him, placing a hand over his blanketed knee. "But do not mistake what I am saying—this is your _only_ chance."

"Yes, my former schoolmates really seem eager to befriend me," Draco told her, pulling on his cigarette in agitation.

"Well, there is a history of bad blood there. It's going to take them longer to warm up to you, but they understand what a valuable asset you are to this organization," Andromeda told him, standing to brush her fingers through his hair.

Her ministrations on his hair caused painful prickles in his scalp and he noted that his body was beginning to ache once more. She seemed to take note and put her arm around his shoulders. With her free hand, she removed the cigarette from his lips. "Enough of that for now," his aunt scolded lightheartedly. "Neville has arrived, and I wanted you to speak with him about that greenhouse."

Draco's mouth turned into an involuntary frown and he made no motion to move. "No one is making a mockery of you, dear. We want you to be able to put your skills to good use. Not to mention, it benefits us mutually," Andromeda told him.

With that, she poked him in the back to gently prod him away from the chair and he stood reluctantly. With a wave of her wand, the window was closed, but she encouraged him to put on a pair of shoes. He slipped his feet into his heavy boots and pulled a jumper over his head, already irritated with having to meet with the feckless wonder to discuss _his_ greenhouse.

"Don't look like the cat ate your cream," she chided. "This is a wonderful opportunity for you to get to know another member of the Order without the clouded lenses of supremacy."

Draco had the decency to look guiltily at the floor as he walked through the door. Andromeda had a way with words that reminded him heavily of his mother's scolding. He followed her into the Commons area and lo and behold, Neville Longbottom was seated on the couch. He had thinned substantially since Hogwarts, but he still bore the same nervous temperance when facing Draco. This thought would have once made Draco elated, but now Longbottom was just one more individual who looked at him as though he were dying of leprosy.

"Nev, I'm sure Molly and Hermione have told you all about the greenhouse?" Andromeda questioned, giving the wary man a hug.

"Yes. I've got some ideas, if you would like to hear them, Malfoy?" he asked quietly, his voice low and timid.

Draco shrugged his shoulder and nodded. "Also," Longbottom began, "Hermione asked me to purchase these."

From within a tote bag, Longbottom pulled out a sealed apothecary jar. Inside glimmered mermaid scales of fuchsia, turquoise and violet, each shimmering in the sunlight. Draco crossed the room and retrieved the jar, looking at it as his wounded arm hung limply by his side. Longbottom eyed the open wound where Draco had pushed his sleeve back to air it, per Granger's earlier instructions.

The blond attempted to tuck it into himself once more but found it hard to hold his arm against himself in a standing position. "Hermione will help you with that," Longbottom told him, pointedly looking away, a little green around the gills.

Draco simply hummed and set the precious scales on the desk under the window where he and Granger had bickered over the cobra fang. "She's in her room—I'll let her know Neville is here. I'm sure she'll want to be the one to apply them to your wound," Andromeda told him.

With that, Longbottom turned to walk out of the door, gesturing that Draco should follow. The walked into the bright sunlight, which did nothing to stave off the brisk, bone-chilling cold of early January. "I was thinking about putting the greenhouse over here if that suits you," Longbottom told him, pointing to the end of a building.

Draco had never ventured outside of the living quarters and was amazed to find that the compound where they resided consisted of three buildings, arranged in a triangular shape. There was a barren courtyard in the middle and the roofs were made of aluminum. "Can you get me a willow branch?" he questioned the herbologist.

Longbottom shrugged. "Sure, I can bring it past next time I come. Thinking of planting one?"

"My mother loved willows," Draco said, his voice barely audible as he spoke.

Longbottom seemed to hear him however and nodded only once. Draco knew he did not deserve this man's kindness either—his aunt had tortured his parents into insanity, and then _laughed_ about it. But that did not seem to bother Longbottom. No, only being alone with Draco seemed to have any bearing on him. Potter and Weasley were coming out of the building straight ahead, Weasley with a platter of chicken legs. "That must be the dining hall?" he surmised.

"Yeah, it is. Have you not been all around?" Longbottom asked.

"I haven't been able to…move," Draco said by way of explanation.

Longbottom nodded his understanding and greeted the other two Gryffindor alums. "I'm going to assist Malfoy in building a greenhouse—to grow the necessary ingredients for healing potions."

"You know, Neville, if you caressed Luna's skin the way you caress those plants, you might get somewhere with her," Weasley commented around a rather laborious bite of chicken leg.

Longbottom blushed scarlet and cleared his throat. "Well, I'll certainly give that some thought."

"Are you staying for dinner tonight? Mum's making quite the spread," Weasley offered.

Potter rolled his eyes and smiled. "When is Molly not making a spread? And, Malfoy eats in his room, like a good little pet, so you'll be free of him for a while. Unless, of course, the two of you start bonding over potions ingredients."

 _Think of the revenge you'll be able to enact with the Order on your side. Do not rise to his taunts._ Draco's nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw but said nothing. Potter clapped Neville on the back and moved along to go into the living quarters. Longbottom, his face finally returning to a normal pale shade, let out a long sigh. Draco scoffed. "Do you always let them rib you like that?" he asked, his nose curled into a sneer.

"They're just picking at me," Longbottom shrugged.

"You are twenty years old, Longbottom. Not thirteen. These people are your friends, but you don't have to put up with their shit, either. You need to learn to dish it right back," Draco criticized, turning toward the third building.

"I've never been much for confrontations," the meek man replied.

"We'll change that," Draco replied, looking over the third building curiously. "What is that?"

Longbottom looked in that direction only briefly before walking off toward the open area once more. "It's mainly used for storage. A huge long hall."

"Storage? Where do you all practice dueling, then? Outside in the harsh cold? The rain?" Draco questioned curiously.

"Dueling? We don't really "practice" it much, per se. We learned a lot from Harry in fifth year, and we've picked up a few tips and tricks along the way since," Longbottom told him as they finally came to an opening between two sides of the triangle.

"How can you all expect to win a war with nothing more than _Expelliarmus?_ You've never dueled with actual _Dark_ magic before?" Draco pressed, growing concerned for these buffoons' frames of mind.

"We've held our ground. Lost a few along the way, but that's expected in War, right?" Longbottom formed the question to sound more like a statement. "I was thinking of putting the greenhouse here. We could put one wall up against this brick and extend it outward so that three sides were exposed to sunlight."

Draco, longing to grill Longbottom further on what he deemed a lack of preparation, only gave a single sharp nod. "Suits me just fine. I think we should have an open-air patch alongside it as well—for the less finicky herbs."

Longbottom agreed. "I need a list of every ingredient you think we may need to grow in here. I'll do my best to obtain all of them—my connections to Healers are pretty strong and I've got a few apothecarians who buy from my private stock. It's how we've gotten such a break on potions so far. But the funds are being bled dry ever more quickly with every week that passes."

"I'd say maybe ten meters by ten meters should be big enough to give the more solitary plants space to grow unencumbered by the others. Where will we get such a supply of glass and building materials?" Draco asked, hugging his one healthy arm closer to himself in an attempt to keep warm.

"Arthur has a friend in a neighboring town. Owns a muggle junkyard of sorts. He could get us the majority. A little fancy spell work and we could easily expand it to the size we need," Longbottom explained, eyeing Draco as he spoke of Muggles.

"Is this friend safe?" the blond asked.

"We have no reason to believe otherwise."

"Yes, well, Finnigan's kin nearly had Granger's parents captured and tortured," Draco countered, staring at the spot that would soon houseplants of all sorts.

"I heard about that," the anxious wizard replied. "Seamus feels terrible. He admitted he did not know the bloke very well—he was the child of a distant cousin of his father. His father did not even know that side of his family—he was shocked by our existence when he married Seamus' mother. The cousin met Seamus when he still owned his pyrotechnics store."

"So, he placed his faith in family he had never known?" Draco voiced his concern, his brow furrowing.

"Aren't you doing the same with Andromeda?" Longbottom countered, turning to walk back toward the living quarters.

 _Touché._ Draco remained silent, pondering the other wizard's words. He wanted to place trust in Andromeda, in Molly, Tonks, Granger. But living in a den of Death Eaters for the last four years had only served to cause massive paranoia. He did not trust any of the Order members, any more than they trusted him. He knew that this was no way to fight—he needed to create an understanding with these individuals so that they would have his back in combat.

They went back into the warmth and Longbottom removed his heavy coat and flopped into one of the couches. "Have the list ready for me by the end of the weekend—I'll go Monday to see what I can obtain."

Draco gave him a sharp nod and stalked off toward his own bedroom. When he opened his door, Granger was sitting on the edge of the bed, turning the jar of mermaid scales over and admiring their beauty. A snarl rose up in his chest at the thought of interacting with anyone else, especially the swotty little bookworm. He had scarce enough energy to argue with her anymore for the day. He had expended far too much energy as it was.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Granger eyed the closed door with a slight frown but said nothing. "I've brought some supplies. I thought we could try my salve—I've added a sticking charm to it. I also brought some silicone-based wrappings."

Draco had no earthly idea what silicone was, but the bandages she lifted appeared to be more elastic than the gauze. "Come and sit," she instructed, patting the bed beside her.

He eyed her warily, his hand shoved into his pocket as he surveyed all of the supplies spread out around her. "I can apply them myself," he finally told her.

"With which hand? Your useless left? Or your nearly useless right?" she questioned curtly, screwing the lid from the aluminum jar that contained her homemade salve.

Draco worked his jaw in agitation as he sat next to her. He had nearly reached his limit of being coddled for a lifetime. But he knew that if these scales worked the way he _hoped_ they would, it was his best hope for regaining use of his arm and dominant hand. "Let's start by cleaning off what we put on earlier, so I can see your tendons clearly."

Granger dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm rose water and then ran it over his arm. He hissed at the feel of the cloth rubbing raw flesh and she looked slightly guilty as she bit her lip. Once all of the greasy salve was off of his injured arm, she pulled it close to her face so that she could see what she was working with. She pulled a contraption over her head, some kind of magnifying monocle with multiple magnifying slides stacked atop one another. A few clicks and lifts of unnecessary slides and she seemed to find the perfect setting. "Fascinating," she whispered, her lips parting as she looked into his open wound.

"What?" he asked, trying to draw his arm away from her protectively.

Granger held his arm firmly in place, not allowing him to budge. "I can _see_ the Dark magic."

"Excuse me?" he barked, looking down at his arm and seeing nothing of the sort.

"That has to be what it is. Little black…I don't know…electrical jolts in your veins. They light up a dark purple…like surging electricity," she explained, as though he knew what the hell electricity was or how it worked.

"How do you know that's not just my magic in general?" he questioned, his tone losing its bite as he bent his head so close to hers that he felt her hair brush his.

"Because," she took the condescending tone she had back at Hogwarts, the one she used when she wanted everyone to know she was the smartest person in the room, "there are other surges, too. They're kind of a whitish blue. I'd bet that's why it's called Dark and Light magic. And here I thought the terms had to do with character of heart."

Draco squinted at his arm, seeing nothing of the sort, even as he turned his head. Granger removed the strange contraption from her head and, before he could stop her, had shoved it down over his. "Let me know when the setting is right for your eyes," she instructed, moving some of the little dials and lifting alternating slides.

"There," he told her, staring at his arm in a fascinated awe to rival hers.

Draco stared at his exposed veins and arteries and felt his own lips part. Thin threads of a blue so faint it was nearly white chased small balls of a deep violet. He let out a sigh of relief that there appeared to be far more Light magic left. "I've never seen anything like this."

"I'd read about visible magic in one of the healing books here. But it stated that few witches and wizards had been able to see it on a microscopic level. So, I fashioned this magnifier myself with supplies we had around here. And it worked!" Granger announced proudly.

"You're bloody brilliant." The compliment flowed through his lips before his brain had the chance to catch up.

Granger lifted her eyes to his and she slid the magnifying contraption from his head and back onto hers. "Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He watched as she touched each of the severed tendons and vessels with the end of her wand, whispering charms and incantations to knit the flesh together. Creating a magnifying contraption sounded exactly like something he would have done in the privacy of his room at the Manor. A pale blond eyebrow raised at the thought that she may truly be an intellectual equal, as curious about the world around her as he. "Where did you learn such intricate Healing spells?" he questioned, trying to keep his tone conversational and not accusatory.

"I've studied every book I could get my hands on since leaving Hogwarts. There have been a few instances where my insatiable thirst for knowledge has helped us."

"And yet, you still did not know about the cobra fang," he ribbed, smirking deeply.

Granger's eyes met his once more, one gigantic behind the magnifiers. "I recall _exact_ recipes for potions, _exact_ measurements, ingredients, and stirring techniques. But—"

"But you're not very experimental," he finished for her.

"We have a limited number of supplies here, so I have not had the freedom to use up what precious ingredients we can get our hands on, for fear it may not go well," she explained, resting her jar of salve on her knee and reaching for the mermaid scales. "I'm really taking a huge leap of faith in you that these scales will do their job. We can't afford for them not to."

Draco shrugged one shoulder. "I have absolutely no idea how well they'll work. But I know the property and chemical makeup and it would make sense for them to cover just as a layer of skin would."

She carefully lifted a violet scale out with a pair of tweezers and simultaneously rubbed a small amount of salve on his arm. With the care of a seasoned Healer, Granger brought the scale to the lower corner of his crudely carved rectangle. "We only have twelve, so let's hope it's enough."

Each scale was roughly the size of a galleon and shining with iridescence. She went for the second violet scale and he stopped her with his free hand. At the feel of his hand over hers she flinched. "Alternate colors. No need to be so uniform."

Granger lifted one unsculpted eyebrow and nodded, releasing the violet scale in favor of a turquoise one. She worked quickly, alternating rubbing salve into his wound and sticking scales to it. When she reached the last scale, the raw muscle was all covered, except for the occasional spot in between. She pulled out a pair of cuticle scissors and cut the remaining scale up to fit in between the others.

Draco was highly impressed with her skill and artistry. She ran a layer of salve over top of all of them, taking care not to bump one into being crooked. When she finished completely, her tiny fingers turned his arm this way and that. The pair admired the simple beauty of their makeshift solution. Without the Mark or the vicious gaping wound he had left behind in carving it away, he felt immensely lighter than he had in years.

It almost looked like an intricate tattoo, shining in the light. The sight of the bright colors lifted a weight from his shoulders, the noose from around his neck. "It's amazing," he mumbled, in sheer awe of how such a simple substitution could make him feel like a completely different person.

He would never be rid of his past, no matter the circumstances he would face in the future. The memory of innocent Astoria, wriggling beneath him as he cut her throat. The sight of his parents' bodies hanging and bleeding over his mother's roses and the imagined sight of said bodies burning on a makeshift stake. These thoughts would forever crowd his mind and infest his heart and emotions.

But with the awful stigma nothing more than a memory now, replaced with something so delicate and elegant, he could begin to allow himself to think of a future. For the first time in nearly longer than he could remember, he thought there could be hope for making it through the War. He was not the monster, complete with a horrific symbolism or macabre trauma.

Granger seemed to notice the lightness in his countenance. "It really is exquisite, Malfoy. Hopefully, this can be your fresh start."

"Thanks," he murmured, still staring at his arm as she cut a piece of the silicone webbing to fit over his scales.

"I'm going to use a sticking charm to keep this steadfast against your new skin. But I would suggest keeping your arm in a sling until you see the scales begin to take. They are incredibly delicate bits of organic material," Granger told him, holding his hand to slide the cylindrical bandage up and over his forearm.

Draco stared at the bright blue webbing of the bandage while she fastened a sling around his shoulder and tenderly placed his arm within. "That should do. How do you feel?" she questioned, and she sounded as though she genuinely cared.

He thought about her question for a moment. How _did_ he feel? Tired? Bloodthirsty? Scared? Hopeful? Lighter? He finally landed on, "Relieved."

She gave him a rare smile. "I bet. We'll have a look at that arm tomorrow."

"Thank you," he said for the second time, retrieving a cigarette from his nightstand drawer and sitting back against his headboard.

Granger left quietly, and Draco sat, staring at his wrapped and slung arm. The bright scales showed between the netting of the silicone sleeve and he grinned, his first genuinely happy smile since his Hogwarts years. Just having the gaping wound covered now made him feel stronger, healthier, though the Dark magic was still leaving his body slowly. His fever nearly dissipated and he felt as though he could go for a run. Instead of tempting fate and putting himself in an infirmary, he pulled the blanket over himself and continued to rest.

Draco hoped that this was the beginning of his upswing—he needed to leave the confines of these four walls. He wanted to go outside in the sunshine, or the snow even. He desired to get started on that greenhouse and get dirt under his fingernails as he plucked and weeded and fertilized the various herbs he would use to craft masterful Healing potions. Most importantly, he wished to prove his worth to the people who had taken him in, housed him, fed him, healed him. If he continued idly lazing about, they were wont to dispose of him, to toss him out on his arse on the frigid streets of Diagon Alley.

He reached into his nightstand and retrieved a scrap of parchment and a quill and ink. Being left-handed and incapacitated was getting tiresome, but he attempted to hold the quill in his right hand to write the list of ingredients, plants, and critters he would need to contain within the greenhouse. As his right hand struggled to write legibly, the blond vowed to himself that he would be well enough within the week to begin living his new normal.

o-o-o

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say that Ron and Harry will come around soon enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Trigger warning—eating disorder and the mentalities surrounding it begin in this chapter. This is my only warning for the rest of the story concerning this particular trigger.

 

Hermione woke early to a house that was hauntingly still. Even Ron’s usual snores were blessedly absent. Her sleep, never restful or deep, had been even more fitful that night. An overactive mind that never steadied coupled with a bundle of nerves, coiled unpleasantly in her stomach had her rolling about in her bed. She supposed this was a reprieve from the ever-present nightmares that usually fueled her incessant insomnia. The screams, the faces of her friends before they fell, the cruel laughs that rang clear as a bell through air that reeked of Dark magic.

 

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and shuffled toward the window. Daybreak had not yet sprung completely, and the sky was a tender shade of violet. Wrapped tightly in her quilt, she retrieved a book from her nightstand and curled into the window seat. It always grounded her, the soft rustling of the early morning wind over the grass and the branches brushing one another. Her hand reached out to roll the window open, the cool air enveloping her like the chilled fingers of Death itself. Pulling her covers tighter around her, she closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh scent.

 

The creaking of a door and the sound of soft footfall prickled at her senses and she looked out into the courtyard. The peculiar sight of Malfoy clad in a simple long-sleeved shirt and a pair of soft shorts, trainers on his feet, made her raise a single eyebrow. She leaned away from the window and drew the curtains shut, peering now from the crack between. His lithe body, still moving carefully after so many days of lying in a bed, stretched and bent in the most curious of ways. Though still weakened, she could see there was a nimble strength in him that made her draw her lip into her teeth.

 

The window was still open and a breeze blew, rumpling her curtains and she used her elbow to hold one against the window pane and her toes to hold the other, her knee holding them still between. Hermione watched as he skipped in place for a brief second before he took off at a steady pace in the direction opposite her room. His footsteps pounded against the ground, the echoing throughout the courtyard the only sound breaking across the bucolic morning. _Thud! Thud! Thud!_ It was a steady tempo and she closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall of her window seat.

 

It was easy to imagine that the thumping of his steps merged with the beats of her heart, steadfast and constant. He was rounding the side of the kitchen and dining hall, making his way toward her window. His gait slowed almost imperceivably and her heart sped, breaking the moment of synchrony, much to her displeasure.

 

As he drew closer, she could hear his breathing, even and only slightly faster given his activity. Her head fell back against the wall as she tried to match his breaths, longing to regain their connection for reasons that escaped her. Breaths flowing in through the nose and escaping between parted lips, they were perfectly harmonized the moment he passed by her open window. After a few calculated, measured inhalations, her heart was brought back to a normal pace.

 

They were balanced in sheer perfection. Hermione had not known she needed to feel such a basic connection to another individual and finding it with an unwitting Draco Malfoy was almost foreign. Since she had repaired his arm, they had been mostly tolerant of one another, the uncouth or biting remarks kept to a minimum. It had been almost surreal, being with him for hours over the last few weeks and chatting harmoniously.

 

Suddenly, Hermione felt like a voyeur, as though the enjoyment brought in those brief moments of connection at the window were perverse. It was over as fast as it had approached, and she pulled the window shut. Malfoy was on his second pass and his head snapped in her direction when he heard the noise crack across the confined space. He stared, his onward trek slowing as they made eye contact.

 

Hermione felt an alien fluttering in her heart and she pinched the curtains closed, swallowing the lump in her throat. Irritation. That must have been the emotion coursing through her, racing through her pulse and staining her cheeks scarlet. Irritation at the thought that, in spite of everything he had been through in the last couple of weeks, he could remain measured and collected, though a tempest raged around him—around _them_ collectively. Irritation at herself for seeking comfort in the simple act of another human being, especially a human being with a personality typically akin to hydrochloric acid.

 

The witch moved away from the window seat, lest her twitching fingers be tempted to pull the curtains apart once more and sat, instead, on the edge of her bed. Her mind was whizzing frantically, trying to explain away the plethora of thoughts and emotions crowding her. She listened as he opened the front door quietly and she heard the stream of the shower turn on in the men’s bathroom.

 

The bitter loneliness was eating away at her again. No matter how valiantly she fought to stave it off, it crept in at random, inopportune times, weighing on her heavily and warping her mind into feeling some strange connection to Draco Malfoy. And why? Because they had shared in a handful of civil conversations in the times she had slipped into his room and addressed his new scales over the last week? Because beneath his biting and sharp tongue was a wit that was quick and kept her on her toes? She scoffed at her own foolishness. _A few conversations and you’re already claiming him a friend?_

o-o-o

 

A sharp knock echoed through Hermione’s room and she was pulled from a sleep she had not expected to find. Her response was little more than a moan in the direction of her door and it opened just as she was prying her eyes open reluctantly. Ron’s head of red hair appeared around the door. “Hey, ‘Mione. Mum sent me to check on you—you didn’t come down to breakfast or lunch,” he mentioned, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “Everything okay?”

 

Her hand cupped around her forehead as she tried to remember what time she had crawled back onto the bed. The sun was streaming steadily into the room now, providing a little warmth. Her throat was dry, and she felt disoriented, but otherwise, she remained intact. “I must have fallen asleep. Finally.”

 

She sat up in the bed, her back going against the headboard and Ron made sure to tuck the quilt around her legs, fretting in the same manner his mother always displayed. “I know these are shit times, but it’s not healthy the way you can go days without sleeping. I wish you’d let Madam Pomfrey brew you something strong.”

 

Hermione waved her hand at her friend, dismissing his worry and retrieved the empty glass next to her, a simple _aguamenti_ filling it. The water was cool and refreshing as it trickled down her throat and Ron watched her drink with a crease between his brows. “We’re worried about you, ‘Mione. Harry and I. Mum, too. You’ve been holing yourself up in here all alone. Or you’re spending time in Malfoy’s room—”

 

“I’ve been nursing him back to health!”

 

“I know, but you’ve been overexposed to the Dark magic as it leaves his body. Since he got here, you’ve been quiet. We hardly ever see you. Your sleep schedule is nearly nonexistent,” Ron said, counting the negativities on his fingers.

 

“I’m fine,” she told him, smiling in a manner she hoped was convincing.

 

“If his being here bothers you, we can send him away. They’ve got a few more safe houses—he can go stay with Andy,” he offered, looking all too gleeful at that possibility.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He’s fine. Other than being a royal pain in my backside, he’s been a decent patient. I’m just tired lately, is all. Really.”

 

He shifted on his haunches, rubbing his palms against the denim of his jeans. His fingers from both hands threaded together anxiously and she could tell he had more to verbalize, he was simply having trouble communicating. “What is it?” she asked softly, nudging him with her toe from under the blankets.

 

“This isn’t about me and Lavender, is it?” he finally spewed forth, looking at the floor as a blush crept up his neck.

 

Hermione felt her jaw tense. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Ron’s eyes finally lifted from the floor to look into hers, the tips of his ears burning crimson. “You and I…we danced around each other for so long. Everyone thought we would be together, Hermione. _Everyone_. But I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

 

“Do what, exactly?” she pressed, feeling anger well within her.

 

Ron shifted again and gestured awkwardly with his hands, his mouth opening and then closing. Finally finding his words, he said, “You constantly shutting me out. Like you’re doing now.”

 

Their brief run as a couple had ended nearly as soon as it had begun, nearly two years prior. Hermione had long since come to terms with the fact that Ron Weasley was not the right wizard for her. They were better as friends, mostly because she had a selfish streak in her and had, as he said, closed him out and kept everything bottled within, unwilling to expend the energy to explain her thoughts and feelings to him regularly. Speaking freely and openly with him had gotten her nowhere—Ron did his best to listen, to sympathize with her feelings, to offer his best version of advice and understanding. Ultimately it had not been enough; Hermione had been left feeling more despondent and detached than at any other time in her life, with no one who could discern her emotions, no one who could truly be her counterpart.

 

“It’s been two years, Ronald. I can assure you that I am not pining after you like some lovesick schoolgirl,” she responded, feeling a small surge of guilt at the look of hurt that flashed quickly across his features.

 

“Of course not. I’m just trying to understand,” he told her, leaning forward on his knees and fidgeting nervously.

 

“There is nothing to understand. I am fine. Malfoy is our new potions expert, maybe he can brew a sleeping-draught strong enough to knock me out,” she sighed, pulling her blanket up to her chin.

 

Ron’s blue eyes snapped toward hers and narrowed. “Malfoy? He’d likely poison you before he’d make you a healing potion of any kind. We’ll contact Madam Pomfrey.”  
  


“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s done nothing dubious or Dark since he’s arrived. Your mother is perfectly healed because of his quick thinking. And she’s right you know, we need to get on friendlier terms with him if we are to trust him in battle,” Hermione reprimanded, sitting up from the headboard and pointing in his direction. “I’m sorry if you and Harry can’t grow up and move on from petty schoolyard rivalries—”

 

“He is a Death Eater! It goes beyond Hogwarts! It was his direct involvement in Dumbledore’s death that started this whole bloody mess!” Ron retorted, his voice booming as he stood to look at her.

 

“Will you keep your voice down, Ronald? He’s just down the hall,” Hermione warned, pushing herself out of bed.

 

The sudden change in position forced blood to rush to her head and the room began to spin around her. Stumbling back, she sat on the edge of the bed, running her hand over her forehead. “Defending him now? Care about his feelings?” Ron questioned, oblivious to her bout of dizziness.

 

She looked up at him incredulously and crossed her arms. “Of course not. But have you ever thought that his motives weren’t as menacing as we’ve always thought? You weren’t there when they were interrogating him. Even your father believes there’s more to him than we know or understand. If we are going to fight on the same side, we can’t afford to fight between us as well!”

 

“He hasn’t even come out of his room! He doesn’t want to speak to us! He’s probably in there plotting on how best to get us all murdered!”

 

It was at this point that Harry’s head popped around the door and he looked between his two best friends. “What’s going on?”

 

“Hermione is taking Malfoy’s side!” Ron gestured at her with both hands, clapping them against his legs exasperatedly.

 

Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and crossed his arms, looking first at the terrible shade of puce Ron’s face had turned, then to Hermione slumped in on herself on the edge of the bed. “In what argument, exactly?”

 

“Does it matter, Harry?” Ron questioned, giving him a bewildered look.

 

Harry shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. “Maybe. I don’t like him being here anymore than you do. But, the fact of the matter is—if he’s going to stay, we need to know that we can trust him.”

 

“Not you, too,” Ron choked out, turning to Harry and smacking his fingers against his opposite palm to emphasize his point. “He. Is. A. Death. Eater. How many different ways can I say it before everyone here remembers it?”

 

“Was.”

 

Ron’s head whipped in Hermione’s direction. She stood slowly and moved to pull her massive head of curls into a sloppy bun, glaring at her friend. “He _was_ a Death Eater.”

 

“Once a Death Eater, _always_ a Death Eater. His coming to us doesn’t absolve him of his past—he’s tortured people, killed them! And he’s here, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, touting a newfound desire to go against the man who has been his Master since we were sixteen! And you all take him at his word!” Ron yelled, vitriol dripping from his every word.

 

“He passed a Veritaserum induced interrogation—” Harry began.

 

“ _He_ trained his followers how to overcome Veritaserum!” Ron countered.

 

“Actually, he didn’t,” came a velvety cool voice from behind them. “The underlying properties in Veritaserum are unable to be duped. If the Dark Lord himself were given the solution, he would be spilling the darkest secrets from every corner of his deluded mind. Had you paid attention to anything Snape said in class, you may have known that. Not to mention, your father watched my memories as the serum pulled them forth in real time, just in case.”

 

Harry and Ron spun around, wands already drawn to face Malfoy as he stood in the open doorway. “Get out, Malfoy,” Harry warned coolly.

 

Malfoy gestured to the floor, where his toes were on the other side of the doorframe. “Technically, I’m not in. I must admit, however, that if there is going to be an argument about me, I should at least be present in order to correct whatever assumption the three of you are incorrectly making about me, my past, my hardships—of which, I’ve had plenty,” he put his hand up when Ron opened his mouth to argue, “or any personality trait on which you wish to expound, though you may choose adjectives befitting in this manner, if I were being honest.”

 

Hermione watched as Harry lowered his wand, though his hand still clenched it tightly as he crossed his arms. Ron held his steadfast, pointed in Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy looked down at his mutilated arm and flexed it before tucking it into himself, his entire countenance cool and bored. His eyes, those penetrating and unnerving silver eyes, looked at the two men in turn, seemingly too indolent to size them up properly, before they were trained on her.

 

Memories of earlier that morning flooded the part of her brain that was working clearly. She saw the muscles of his jaw work and his eyes did pass over her frame. After the ludicrous thoughts that had plagued her mind that morning, it was difficult to meet his eye. He had no way of knowing what exactly she was thinking, what she had thought earlier that morning. That saving grace did nothing to quell the way her heart began to beat rapidly. He tilted his head to the side as he stared at her, trying to riddle out a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was building before his very eyes.

 

Ron looked at him and then back at Hermione, who _felt_ like she was ablaze. “Is there something going on here that I’m not privy to, Hermione?” he demanded, and she bristled at his tone.

 

“Besides basic human understanding of the world around you?” Malfoy supplied, narrowing his eyes at Hermione directly, refusing to look away.

 

She was trapped under his scrutiny, the gazelle under the fierce inspection of a lion. Though intimidation seemed to be his main goal, there was a spark of fire in his eye that showcased a curiosity. “Of course not. Don’t be foolish,” she replied, turning away to begin making her bed if to do nothing more than to steady her hands.

 

 _It’s only Malfoy._ “You stay away from her Malfoy,” Ron hissed through clenched teeth, “or I will murder you with my bare hands, you bastard.”

 

“Stifle yourself, Weasel. I’ve got no desire to go consorting with Granger, of all people,” Malfoy said, and without looking at him, she knew he was sneering at her back.

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Harry demanded, moving his wand up, ready to hex his rival.

 

“It’s evident isn’t it?” Ron spat, sounding as though his argument was finally being validated. “He hasn’t changed his views. No matter how many hours Hermione spends, healing him; tending to him; talking civilly to him; vouching for him, at the end of the day, she’s still a Muggle-born and he can’t stand her for it.”

 

Hermione was growing weary of the conversation and could feel the tension building, the testosterone-fueled anger was thick as fog. She stilled from her place at the corner of the bed, where she had been busy tucking her sheet into the mattress and held her breath, waiting for Malfoy to respond.

 

The two were decidedly _not_ friends. The only time they had spoken was when she was acting in a Healer’s capacity, first healing the wound and then repairing it with the scales and monitoring the progress since. Still, Hermione felt certain that, despite his earlier stream of calmly delivered cruel and derisive remarks, he had grown to look past her blood status.

 

She dared peek at him from under her eyelashes, her hands unmoving on the quilt clutched in her fingers. He had stepped into the room, Harry’s wand brushing his arm as he stepped into Ron’s face. “How wonderful it must be, to have everything all figured out. Congratulations.”

 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Ron challenged, his wand’s point digging into Malfoy’s chest.

 

“If I thought of Granger as a lowly little Mudblood, do you honestly think I would have allowed her to put her hands on me?”

 

“Her hands?” Ron sputtered.

 

“Keep up, Weasley. Granger is brilliant, no doubt, but even she can’t conjure scales on my arm using sheer willpower. She had to come into contact with me at some point, for which I have already thanked her. Which, as it turns out, falls under the realm of being _not your fucking business_. And as far as consorting with her, she has twenty collective stones of dead weight acting as a bridle to rein in that brilliance and creativity. A pity, really, but I need someone who can think for themselves and not in a collective mind,” Malfoy replied, his tone even and low.

 

A chill crawled down Hermione’s spine and she watched as the three men stood stark still. Harry was the first to break, backing away slightly. Ron made sure to give Malfoy’s chest an extra jab with the end of his wand. “Stay away from her. I don’t know what you or your pungent Dark magic has done to her.”

 

Malfoy’s brow furrowed, and he looked over Ron’s shoulder to where Hermione was biting at her lower lip. “What do you mean?”

 

Harry put his hand on Ron’s chest a pushed him a pace away from Malfoy, trying to let up on the tension in the room. “She’s been acting a little differently.”

 

“I’m right _here_ ,” Hermione said agitatedly, finally finding her voice.

 

“Differently how?” Malfoy urged, pushing past Ron roughly to stand in front of her, his arms crossed. “She seems to be the same bossy know-it-all she’s always been.”

 

“Ever since _you_ came,” Ron began, moving to stand next to him, “she’s locked herself in her room every day. She’s hardly talking to anyone, besides my mum and Andy.”

 

“Perhaps,” Malfoy bit out, “that is because she finds the company readily available to her to be lacking.”

 

“There is nothing going on with me. They’re concerned because I’ve not been sleeping well. I thought, maybe, you could brew something for me? Strong enough to make me sleep through the night,” she mentioned to him.

 

Malfoy scrutinized her, his eyes searching hers—for what, she was unsure. “Next time Longbottom comes around, ask him to find a cutting of night-blooming oleander.

 

“Oleander?” she clarified. “But it’s poisonous.”

 

“Night-blooming oleander, when brewed in conjunction with lacewing flies and the saliva of a natalus bat, among other sundry ingredients, creates a potion strong enough to induce a coma or even death. But, if just a drop is placed under the tongue, it is far more powerful than your average, run of the mill sleeping-draught,” he told her, sounding far more level and patient than he had a few moments prior.

 

The way he spoke of potions intrigued her, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world to him that such ingredients would work together to create the intended effect. A thought, a dangerous one at that, flickered through her mind. What if she were to dip into his mind, if only for a few moments, just to see how it worked? His eyebrow raised in her direction and he lifted his face, looking down his nose at her. “A sprig of night-blooming oleander. Preferably the pink Laurier variety,” he told her, and he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

 

“What difference does that make?” she asked his retreating form.

 

Malfoy stopped in the door frame and glanced momentarily over his shoulder. “None. But it’s prettier to look at and sweeter to smell.”

 

Hermione looked at the now vacant space he had occupied only moments before and frowned. “What in the bloody fuck does that even mean?” Ron asked quizzically, looking put out at the idea that Malfoy should think about such trivial criteria in a potions ingredient.

 

She thought about the poetic way he had once described thunderstorms to her and knew it was not worth wasting her breath to explain to her friends, _again_ , that there was more to Draco Malfoy than anyone recognized.

 

o-o-o

 

Hermione stood outside of Malfoy’s door later that evening, a tray hoisting two bowls of soup, some freshly baked rolls and two glasses of pumpkin juice levitating next to her. She had avoided his room, as though he were quarantined within, since their absurd interaction with Harry and Ron that afternoon. Not to mention, her mentally concocted connection to him that morning. Sleep deprivation was blamed for that preposterous experience. Still, she lingered, shifting her weight from one foot of the other and raising her fist to knock before lowering it.

 

Just as she raised her fist for the third time, the door opened, and the Malfoy heir was filling the doorway, leaning on his forearm against the jamb. “Can I help you, Granger?”

 

Her voice faltered, and she stuttered over a string of nonsensical words, her face heating tellingly. She lowered her wrist, wringing her hands instead. Malfoy furrowed his brow and his stare felt more like he was glowering down at her. “I can’t understand your garbled mumbling. Can you speak a little more clearly?” he questioned, his eyes darting over the tray for the first time.

 

Hermione cleared her throat, gesturing toward the food. “I brought you some dinner.”

 

His eyes moved from the bowls to her face and a look of stark irritation overtook his countenance. “I see that. But why are there two servings?”

 

His mood was foul once more, the halfway decent person he had been earlier when speaking of flowers—albeit deadly ones—melted away. She absently wondered if it was because she had stolen the morning from him, peeped into a secret part of him that he wasn’t ready to share with anyone. Or if he was still angry about Ron’s vicious slandering of him. “There’s a few members of the Order here tonight.”

 

She drew her lips between her teeth as her eyes fell to the hollow at the base of his neck, trying not to reveal her true thoughts. “And? I would have thought you’d love to spend time with them, not in here, pestering me,” he challenged.

 

Hermione lifted one shoulder in a simple shrug and turned to leave. “If you don’t want company, that’s all you have to say. You don’t have to be a prick.”

 

She had gotten a few feet from him when she heard him sigh. “Fuck. Come on then.”

 

She turned back toward him and he had moved out of the doorway, gesturing back toward his room. “Are you just going to continue insulting me?” she insisted, not wishing to be alone but also not desiring to face his ridicule.

 

To her surprise, one corner of his mouth lifted, and a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Probably,” he replied, though the usual snark was absent in the one word.

 

Hermione fought to keep from smiling as well and walked past him into his room as he moved away from the door. He retrieved a spare quill from his desk and used his wand to transfigure it into a second chair. “Use of your right hand is improving,” she commented, sliding the newly formed chair away from the desk as the dinner tray levitated between them to rest atop the wood.

 

“I’m total fucking rubbish with my right hand. But it’ll do until my left has regained full use,” he agreed, sitting at the opposite end of the desk and waving his wand to separate their servings.

 

Silence fell over them as Malfoy tucked into his dinner. Hermione was surprised when the air around them didn’t grow thick with maladroit quiet. Instead, it was companionable, comforting just being side by side with another person who relished the calm just as much as she. A few minutes passed, the only noise the silver brushing ceramic as they ate and a bird chirping somewhere outside of his cracked window.

 

Her head was resting on her closed fist, her elbow on the table when Malfoy finally broke the peace. “Why aren’t you eating?”

 

Hermione lifted her head from her fist and he was looking at her, wiping his mouth with a napkin. She looked at her food, noting that she had absently pushed all of the potatoes to one side of the bowl but hadn’t ingested anything. She dropped the spoon and sat back in her chair. “I’m just not hungry.”

 

“Really,” Malfoy asked, licking his lips as he angled his frame to better watch her.

 

He was staring at her, his eyes falling over the bare shoulder that peeked out from the top of her jumper. She was suddenly aware of the knot that rested atop and pulled the top of her jumper over it to hide it from his unwavering gaze. “Your excuses may pacify those two feckless imbeciles you call friends—”

 

“I think today’s little episode would exhibit quite the contrary,” she argued.

 

“Does it? They blame _me_ for your issues—my Dark magic, my personality, my _presence_. But it’s not me at all, is it?” he pressed, lifting his glass of pumpkin juice to his lips.

 

Hermione avoided his eyes and purposefully took a bite of potato, wanting to gag as it slid down her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I’ve been here for all too brief a time. Not near long enough for you to drastically drop weight or for the lovely violet circles to permanently take residence on your face. So, how long has it been?” he quizzed, leaning forward in his chair to close the space between them a fraction.

 

“I do not have a problem,” she argued, pushing the bowl away from herself completely.

 

A smirk bloomed across his features and he leaned back in his chair, draping his elbow over the back. “Tsk tsk, Granger. It should be evident that I am far more astute than your doltish lackeys. You can keep telling me that there’s nothing wrong, that you’re fine. But we both know you’re lying. I don’t even need Legilimency to see the compulsion to speak to someone who might sympathize written all over your features.”

 

 _Legilimency_. How had that little tidbit slipped her mind? Had he heard her thoughts during his run? He _had_ slowed down as he approached her window. Suddenly mortified, she stood from the desk and began collecting their dishes—vanishing her food—on the tray, avoiding him as best she could in such a confined space.

 

Malfoy stood as well, putting his hand over hers and stilling her work. “Are you ill?” he probed, leaning against the edge of the table as she pulled away from him.

 

She could feel him again, her skin crawling and tingling perturbingly as his eyes roamed all over her. “Tell me, Granger, how many times have you taken in your jeans? Altered a jumper?” he used his fingers to forcefully push at her cleaned bowl, “Vanished your food?”

 

“This isn’t your business, Malfoy, so just drop it,” she warned, trying to retrieve the tray once more.

 

His arm shot out, halting her advancements one more and it took every ounce of effort not to stomp her foot. “On the contrary. The health of anyone who will be my comrade is my business. Had we stayed on opposing sides, I would relish in seeing you weak. But, you’re my only hope in staying alive long enough to see the Dark Lord dead. Not to mention, you’re smarter than this.”

 

“What do you know?” she challenged, feeling anger at his vehement barrage of questions.

 

“I know your friends are the biggest idiots walking. I’d venture to say you’ve been hiding secrets for months, if not longer—and yet, they are only just taking note. And why? Because you’re not socializing with them. Not because your already petite frame grows smaller with every day that passes,” his hand lifted toward her and his knuckles brushed over her exaggerated ribcage. “Not because you look as though each night brings a new terror you’d rather stay awake than face. Not because you look like, should Death show his face now, you would beg him to take you from this plane of existence. No—those _thick_ arseholes notice that something is wrong with you only because they _want_ a catalyst to get me out of here and your sudden aversion to their suffocating friendship is the easiest thing to pin on me.”

 

Hermione could feel her lip quivering as his words—harsh realities she could not deny—washed over her. His hand, which had rested against her side, lifted to her face and his fingers closed around her chin. “No. Don’t you dare cry.”

 

She tried to pull away and he refused her retreat. Her eyes closed, blinking back tears that threatened to fall and she felt his thumb tighten, his hand holding her steady. “Don’t you shed a single tear, witch,” he warned lowly.

 

“Why not?” her voice was a whisper between them.

 

“Because you’re Hermione fucking Granger. You’re too good for eating disorders and crying over life life’s hardships. You push on and fight tooth and nail until everything that needs to be accomplished is completed. You’re stubborn and strong-willed. Courageous,” was the explanation he gave, and she could feel the cool caress of the air as his fingertips were removed.

 

His arms folded over his chest as he rested on the edge of the desk once more. Hermione moved to collect their dinner dishes once more, before the horror of the pending meltdown became a reality right here in his room. From her peripheral, she could see him watching her. “I don’t know what is going on with you, but I suggest you get your priorities straight before you get us killed.”

 

The witch made it out of his room and into the commons area, tossing their dishes onto a nearby table before she sprinted to her room. As her breathing grew erratic, she knew a panic attack was inevitable. How Malfoy could go from being almost encouraging to disparaging in the literal blink of an eye left her head reeling and her gut twisted. To think, only hours before, she had considered him a possible counterpart. How wrong she had been.

 

o-o-o

 


	9. Chapter 9

Her sobs resonated in his brain for hours after their departure. While she had hidden in her room and cried the entire evening away, the others had remained in the dining hall, likely conversing and trading stories of the outside world, all told from the clouded lenses of people hidden away from the public eye. Not one member of the Order had come to check on Granger since she had entered his room with dinner—Draco had purposely listened for her guard dogs or even Molly. Curiously, she had also not silenced her room in any manner, allowing him to listen to her sobbing.

 

At first, Granger had made a few noises like she was choking on air and he had almost gone to her—his reasoning for considering such an act unknown. To yell at her and degrade her for her deficiencies? _No. That won’t do._ To cup her cheek and kiss the tears from her eyes? _Where did that come from?_ Draco rolled onto his back with one arm thrust behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

 

Anger surged through him as he thought of the way her lip quivered when they had been close. Anger at her dunderheaded choices for friends, yes, but he was even more angry with _her_. It was an irrational feeling of wrath, he knew. An unnecessary animosity that she had done nothing to deserve and very little to warrant.

 

Since the moment he had first awoken to find her quizzical cinnamon eyes staring down at him weeks before, he had secretly looked to her for stability. She was predictable in many ways, to anyone perceptible enough to notice her nuances—his bandages had been dressed at the same time each day, her banter and quips were laughably foreseeable, her healing was always efficient and well executed. Her attitude toward him was thawing, any dolt could see that—except perhaps the two she galivanted about with—a fact that was unnerving. Granger had always been the grounded, logical one. Courageous, yes, but methodical in her endeavors.

 

No matter the absurdities going on around them, the rumors surrounding him or the chaos her friends wreaked, she was always there by his side, healing his body and unwittingly assisting to soothe and grow his soul. He had been weak for so long—so many years of mental anguish, guilt, and sorrow had marred and tainted his life. Then, to come here and have her by his side, the reasoning behind her kindness unknown to him, it truly felt like he was carving out a path to a second chance.

 

Since he had first hazily caught a glimpse of her inquisitive eyes, one of the first things he could recall upon waking, Draco had considered her to be his anchor. That was, until two days prior, when they had passed one another in the kitchen while they both retrieved a cup of tea. It had been early morning and he had hoped no one else would be milling about, but as fate would have it, Granger had been in the kitchen, preparing her own cup when he entered. She had been wearing nothing but a pair of fleece pajama bottoms and a thin white shirt. As the sun had shined over the rolling moors, it had streamed through the window and made her shirt nearly translucent and he had first caught sight of what exactly lay beneath.

 

Granger was thin—though, not outlandishly so. Not enough that an outsider would question her health. But Draco had seen her for years, soft and healthy. In the early morning sun, he could make out the impressions between each rib, the curve of her hip was more pronounced, the vertebrae in her back a little more prominent, her breasts— _had they ever been larger?_ —small handfuls. Draco had never attended meals with the others, and so had never noticed her eating habits. He naturally assumed that she ate minimal portions.

 

When she had come to him earlier that day, clearly wanting to share a meal, Draco had only acquiesced to corroborate his suspicions. Her lack of eating and the way she did nothing but rearranged her food had confirmed for him that she suffered an illness. But, why? He knew the girls in Slytherin routinely purged in his Hogwarts days, but she didn’t seem the type to care so much about her looks or weight that she would take to vomiting after meals to maintain a slim figure. Yet, Granger was starving herself—intentionally or unintentionally, he did not know, though he suspected it may have been a balance of both. It had been difficult for him to think of much else since the morning sun had whispered all of Granger’s secrets in his ear. Her frame, nearly naked for all the good her thin shirt had done, had burned behind his eyelids.

 

Draco _hated_ her for it. It was a selfish, slow brewing kind of loathing that he knew was both irrational and unjustified. The rational part of his brain simply was not strong enough to win. So, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, fury at the witch coursing through him like the little balls of light they had watched chase one another within his veins. _Ekeltricity._ The word made him scoff and he clenched his fist beneath his head, taking a long pull from his cigarette.

 

 _How dare she?_ How dare she do this, to _him?_ Draco needed her—her guidance, her stability, her nurturing. If she was just as fucked up as he, who the fuck would save him? Save _them_?

 

_Speak to her._

It was a faint voice in his head that whispered to him. _Go to her, learn her—who she is, what she needs,_ it urged him. There was no point. Draco had already fucked everything up with his relentless bite. It’s not like he needed friends anyway—he only needed a steadfast group of trained soldiers fighting alongside him. He already had a plan in motion on how to strengthen these fools into strong, worthy brethren in arms—misplaced sympathy and wishing to _kiss_ away tears were of no use to him in this War.

 

Draco rose from his bed, vanishing the cigarette and the smoky haze from the room as he pulled a jumper over his head. He cracked the door and listened, intent on hearing her crying. He was met with silence and rolled his eyes as he realized she had likely cried herself into exhaustion. A slight tug at his heart told him he should feel guilty, but he swallowed hard and moved into his potions workshop, ignoring any emotion that would cause him to feel too human.

 

His potions workshop was far from being complete, but it was coming along as nicely as could be expected between the War rationings, the high cost of ingredients and components, and the limited needs of the Order. Healing potions were to become his specialty—though he already knew quite a bit more than he would have learned had he interned at St. Mungo’s instead of on the battlefields of Britain. The War was shifting beyond the foothills outside of their windows and everyone in the Order seemed to feel it. Dread and despair seemed at the back of everyone’s minds, as the Order had no foreseeable advantage and the Dark Lord gained followers—out of fear more than loyalty—each day.

 

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the way the earthiness of his potted herbs mixed with the scent of the healing salve he was trying to replicate and strengthen. He stirred the cauldron anti-clockwise thrice and then the salve went from a bright fuchsia and darkened to near violet. Draco made his way to the bookshelves that the others had attempted to fill with as many healing texts as they had access to.

 

He had already read the majority of them in his brief stay at the Compound. His fingers brushed along the spines, searching for the one that would provide him with the answers he sought. Plucking a thick book with a deep red cover from the shelf, he flipped through until he found a chapter on creating nourishment potions. Irish witches and wizards had devised them in the 1840s during the time of famine in order to keep themselves from succumbing to starvation. One potato or turnip could last an individual a month if the potion was brewed efficiently.

 

If Granger wouldn’t eat, he would force her to drink these damn potions to retain her strength and vitality. He tossed the book onto the table with a clatter, his agitation still causing his stomach to roil dangerously. _How could she be so reckless?_ His hands shook as he went to his hanging herb pots and brushed his fingertips over the various plants.

 

What would Granger want to taste? Savory? Sweet? His mouth set in a frown, he opened a large wardrobe that was serving as his ingredients cupboard. He had a single vanilla bean and he harvested it from the jar and laid it on the table, along with the delicate wings of a dragonfly and a vial of blood from the heart of an Amazonian tree frog.

 

Draco stared at each item and compared them to the ingredients in the book. The book called for a root vegetable and he groaned, knowing he would have to walk to the kitchens to retrieve the item and risk making contact with the others. He made his way across the Compound’s courtyard, feeling anxious nausea at the thought of dealing with the others on a moment’s notice.

 

The evening was dark, the twilight painting the sky a deep violet and the mountains loomed like giants against the backdrop. He yearned for a cigarette at that moment and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them distracted. The long building that housed the kitchens and dining hall was aglow against the night and the sound of voices twittering filtered out of the cracked door. He stood still, fully aware that he was eavesdropping, and tried to listen in to see if they were discussing him.

 

_“…I still don’t understand why Dumbledore had this on him when he died…”_

_“It’s been years and we have gotten nowhere with it, Harry…”_

_“It has to mean something!”_

Draco furrowed his brow as he entered into the hall. There were only a few members of the Order, gathered around a long dining table in much the same fashion as he had once sat with the Dark Lord. Everyone’s faces were stony and wrinkling prematurely with worry and the chattering ceased the moment he walked into the room. All eyes were trained on him and Potter placed his hand over something on the table as he narrowed his eyes at him.

 

Molly tilted her head and forced a smile onto her face. “Is there something you needed, dear?”

 

Draco’s eyes bounced from her to a tall redheaded man with a goatee and dragon fang earring who had what appeared to be a fair bit of scarring along his arms and face. _Bill Weasley—the curse-breaker_. To their right, Weasley, the Weasley daughter, and Potter. Across from them, Lovegood sat alone with her feet up on the chair next to her. They all stared apprehensively at him, as though they were anxious that he had overheard something.

 

“I only came to retrieve something from the kitchen,” he replied, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

 

“Stealing food, Malfoy? In a time of rationing?” Weasley asked, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms.

 

“Ronald,” his mother warned with a deathly glare.

 

_You fucking idiot. I’m doing this for your friend since you are too stupid to see she’s in trouble._

“What do you need?” Molly asked, coming around the table.

 

“A root vegetable, preferably a potato,” Draco deadpanned, glancing her way before settling on staring straight at Potter.

 

“A potato?” the young Weasley witch asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Nev once told me that potatoes have a cell structure similar to humans, surprisingly,” Lovegood quipped, nodding her understanding.

 

“That’s right, and since I’m here to make potions that heal humans,” Draco stated, waving his hand as though to say, _here I am._

 

Molly nodded and touched his arm gently before scuttling off. He looked back to the table and a sneer spread across his lips. “Please, don’t let me interrupt the conversation. Tell me, Potter, what is it you are trying your best to conceal over there?”

 

Potter looked up from where he was attempting to slip some kind of necklace into his pocket. “Nothing that concerns you,” the Boy Wonder replied, his features turning hard.

 

“Actually, Harry,” Bill piped up, “it might actually be advantageous to show this to Draco.”

 

Draco. Not Malfoy. _Draco._ This was the first time he had met Bill Weasley in the flesh, and already he was settling on informalities. Potter’s mouth dropped as he regarded the eldest Weasley brother. “Bill. I’m not so sure—”

 

“He lived within his lair,” Bill reminded him patiently.

 

Weasley looked as though he wanted to argue until Bill put his hand up in finality. “Harry,” he prompted. “Draco, come around here and see what you can make of this.”

 

Everyone else was watching on silently as Draco sauntered to where Bill sat. Lovegood sat back in her chair, a small smile on her lips as she watched him navigate his way over to them. “You’re looking better. Our Hermione nursed you back to health, huh?”

 

“ _Hermione_ enjoys taking on charity cases,” Weasley spat, rolling his eyes.

 

“Which is why I wasted so many months of my life in a dead-end relationship with you,” came a voice from behind Draco.

 

Draco looked over his shoulder and Granger was standing in the door frame with her arms crossed. “Hermione,” Potter began, trying to alleviate the storm that was beginning to brew.

 

A smile was forming on Draco’s mouth as the witch entered the room and began making her way to the kitchen. “Doesn’t feel very good when rude comments are made with regards to you and I now does it, Ronald? So, if you could kindly stop with the baseless assumptions on why I chose to heal and assist Malfoy, we could all begin to work together a lot more cohesively.”

 

Weasley appeared to be turning a strange shade of puce and Bill looked as though he wanted to laugh. “Really, Ron. Quit being such a foul git. Malfoy hasn’t done anything to provoke us. Yet,” Ginny said, her tone one of irritation, though her eyes flickered toward the blond as she hissed _yet._

“I have no intentions of it. I want to defeat the Dark Lord just as much as the rest of you,” Draco told them, watching Granger’s retreating form as she passed Molly on the way to the kitchen.

 

“Exactly,” Bill said, cutting through Draco’s rising ire at the way her shoulder blades moved under the jumper she wore. “Come around here and have a look. See if you can make heads or tails of this.”

 

Draco went around to where Potter was sheepishly trying to extract the necklace—a locket, as it turned out—from his pocket. He held it up to Draco, who held it up to better inspect it in the light. Made of a gaudy gold, it had a slick ‘S’ faceted from emeralds inlaid into the metal. “Slytherin’s locket. Except,” he held it and weighed it in his hand, “it’s a fake. It’s not near heavy enough to be made of gold.”

 

“Well spotted,” Bill complimented, retrieving a small scrap of paper. “This was inside.”

 

Draco held the locket with one hand and unraveled the piece of parchment, narrowing his eyes as he read:

 

_A Nurse in the New World_

_Holds the key to defeating the Dark Lord._

_If you hold this letter in your hand, I died in my attempt to_

_crush the Souls of the foulest monster._

_My only hope is that you fare better than I._

_R.A.B._

 

He read over the print three times, committing it to memory as he swiped a fingertip over his lips in contemplation. It was written in a coy riddle, one he intended to puzzle out. His lip was drawn between his teeth as he tried to comprehend. His brow knit together in concentration and his lips parted. “What is it?” Lovegood asked, resting her chin in her hand as though she were fascinated with just watching him.

 

Draco looked once more to the locket in his hand, staring at it. “I’ve seen this before. At Hogwarts.”

 

“Of course, you have,” Granger piped up, leaving the kitchen with a large mug of tea. “It’s Salazar Slytherin’s locket. He was probably wearing it in the tapestry of him that hung in the Slytherin Commons.”

 

Draco looked at it as he passed it to Potter. “You misunderstand. I saw it in a book in the library. A hanged witch was wearing it.”

 

“What do you mean? A hanged witch?” Potter asked, his facial features screwed up in confusion.

 

“Like one of those during the medieval period,” Draco said dismissively, turning again to the slip of parchment.

 

“What does that have to do with anything now?” Potter questioned, pocketing the trinket.

 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Draco confessed. “But I feel strange about this. Like it means something. _‘A Nurse in the New World_ ’? What the bloody hell does that even mean?”

 

“A nurse is a muggle medi-witch,” Granger supplied.

 

She came to stand directly behind where Draco was seated and leaned over the back of his chair. Her hair tickled his cheek as she reached around to tap the letter with her fingertip. “We’ve stared at this for two years.”

 

“ _Nurse_ is capitalized. Why?”

 

Granger stared at it, her lips parting slightly. “You’re thinking it’s a name, rather than a title?” she asked as he eyed her thin frame in his peripheral.

 

“I’m not sure. It could be nothing more than a title,” Draco replied with a slight shrug.

 

He sat back in his chair and Granger was still leaning on the back of it over his shoulder. He looked to Molly and Bill _._ “We need to get to the library at Hogwarts. Do you think it would be possible?”

 

“If you need books, I could just have Minerva bring them to you,” Molly suggested.

 

“No. I don’t know which ones. I’m not asking for a stack of books. I’m asking for time to find the _right_ book,” Draco told the group collectively. “I don’t care if we need to Polyjuice ourselves as students to get by.”

 

Bill sat back in his chair and draped one arm over his chest and stroked his fingertips over his goatee as he mulled over the request. “That may very well be what you have to do. With the Carrows running the show in the castle, it would be near impossible and deathly dangerous to have any of our people maneuver without being caught.”

 

Draco nodded as he internalized the fact that Bill had included him in ‘our people.’ One of the Order. These people were far more forgiving than the individuals he had been surrounded with for so long. He would be murdered on the spot if he presented himself to a Death Eater now, no questions and no forgiveness.

 

He stared at the words hastily written across the parchment once more, trying to focus on the matter at hand. _…crush the Souls of the foulest monster._ Souls. Capitalized and plural. His eyes flickered up to meet Bill’s as a conversation he had overheard between the Dark Lord and his Aunt crept into his mind. He raised an eyebrow as Draco stared at him without really _seeing_ him. “Care to share with the class?”

 

“Is there a way to entrap one’s soul in an item?” he asked the curse-breaker.

 

Bill frowned and sat back in his chair, averting his eyes to look at the tabletop as he pondered his question. “There is one way…but it’s incredibly dangerous and would, no doubt, weaken the individual to near death.”

 

“Or enough to have to exist on the back of someone’s head and live, as a parasite, off of another?” Draco challenged.

 

Bill crossed his arms and looked at the others around the table. “You think he split his soul?”

 

“I overheard the Dark Lord telling my Aunt Bellatrix that an item—he didn’t say what—had been securely hidden. She made a comment that they would not waste his other six lives, as the first had so carelessly been discarded,” Draco told them, pursing his lips.

 

Everyone at the table looked disgusted and mortified at the idea that the Dark Lord could do such a thing. Bill tapped his fingertips on the table. “It would take an incredible amount of harnessed Dark magic to be able to create _one_ Horcrux. I’ve never heard of anyone being successful in making one. But to make six?”

 

“Seven. It was made to seem that one had already been wasted,” Molly chimed in from across the table. “It would make sense, Bill. When he fell after his attempt on Harry’s life, he was reduced to nearly nothing. But they brought him back in that graveyard.”

 

“Riddle’s diary,” Ginny Weasley muttered, her mouth falling open in horror and her skin paling beneath the freckles.

 

“What?” Draco questioned. “I don’t follow. The Dark Lord is not the type to write in a _diary_.”

 

“It wasn’t an ‘I have a crush on Bella’ type of diary,” Potter told him, running a hand up and down Ginny’s back comfortingly. “In the Chamber of Secrets in second year I faced Tom Riddle—he appeared out of the pages of a blank diary. He had been communicating with—”

 

“Possessing,” the witch corrected.

 

“Ginny. I destroyed the diary and he disappeared once more…until the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” Potter finished.

 

“Your _father_ slipped the book in with her schoolbooks at the start of the year,” Weasley accused, looking at him as though _he_ were the one who had put his sister into danger.

 

Draco wrinkled his brow. His father? “Why would my father slip a Horcrux into a schoolgirl’s belongings? Wouldn’t it be considered a precious item, to be hidden or guarded with the utmost care, as it housed a part _of his fucking soul?_ ”

 

“In hopes that he would successfully be brought back. Instead, it was destroyed. And we thought he had been with it until a couple of years later,” Molly said, putting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder as she stood behind her.

 

“You expect us to believe you had no idea?” Potter inquired, looking every bit as skeptical as the redheaded git next to him.

 

“I was hardly a Death Eater at _twelve years old_ ,” Draco spat. “The Dark Lord wasn’t particularly keen on discussing his own past failures.”

 

Granger leaned over him and peered at the note. “We definitely need to get into Hogwarts library. We need to research these Horcruxes.”

 

“We’ll both go,” Draco said turning his head slightly so that he could feel Granger’s soft breaths as she frowned at the parchment.

 

“I’m going as well,” Weasley announced, crossing his arms as he stared at Draco and Granger.

 

Draco rolled his eyes as Granger snorted next to his ear before standing. Weasley turned a bright scarlet. “Well, it would be for a good cause. And I don’t trust _him_ yet. The castle _is_ being run by Death Eaters these days.”

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Bill groaned, smacking his palm against the table. “Can you give it a rest, Ron?”

 

“I’d like to go as well,” Lovegood said airily, smiling at the group. “Hogwarts was my home for so long and I quite miss it.”

 

Molly smiled pityingly at that sweet sentiment and reached across the table to pat Lovegood’s hand. Potter, not wanting to miss out on the attention and glory, no doubt, volunteered as well. The Weasley matriarch’s lips turned down into a frown as she collapsed into a chair. Draco nearly felt for her plight—the mother hen, losing control of her adult chicks. “Everyone does not need to go. The more that go, the more suspicion it raises.”

 

Granger lifted the warm mug to her lips. “Malfoy, Harry, Luna and I will go. Ron can stay here since his only reasoning for going was his jealousy.”

 

“Hermione, don’t be ridiculous—” Weasley began, looking between Granger and Draco with his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 

Bill put his hand up and his brother snapped his jaw shut. “You can stay here, Ron. There will be plenty of assignments in the future.”

 

“This is absurd. Allowing Malfoy out of our sight, in a castle guarded by Death Eaters,” he mumbled, shaking his head angrily.

 

Draco looked on at the eldest Weasley brother with admiration—he could command respect even more readily than his father. He knew, if there was a single individual in the entire Order that held invaluable knowledge, it would be Bill. As he rose to Apparate away to his cottage by the sea, he gave Draco a gruff handshake. “I’ll contact Minerva in the morning and see about getting you into the library. You’ll need the Polyjuice, but we don’t have a month to wait for brewing.”

 

“Longbottom,” Draco offered as an answer. “He has a direct line to Poppy Pomfrey, who, no doubt, has her own cache of various potions and can get into the Potions’ classroom’s stores with the excuse that she needs something for a student. None of the Death Eaters they’ve got teaching are worth a shit and they likely wouldn’t question it. More likely, they’d only question why they’re bothering to heal students at all.”

 

“I can’t believe parents are still sending their children to that terrible place. This wouldn’t be happening if Albus Dumbledore were still alive!” Molly voiced bitterly and every set of eyes in the room looked at Draco.

 

“This War was a long time coming. Dumbledore’s death was merely a catalyst but make no mistake—the Dark Lord’s plans would have been put into effect regardless. His followers had never renounced the old ways—they merely needed a ringleader to command the attention and organize the cause,” he told them, grabbing his potato from the tabletop and nodded once to Bill. “Granger. My potions workshop, ten minutes,” he muttered, looking at the curly-haired witch.

 

“I’ll come with you, ‘Mione,” Weasley offered, eyeing him. “What could you possibly need to speak with her about? Your arm is nearly healed.”

 

Draco looked into Granger’s eyes, her secret on the tip of his tongue. “’ _Mione_ ,” he sneered as he spat the ridiculous nickname—far too common a pseudonym for the brilliant witch, “and I happen to share a particular _hunger_. For knowledge that is. I have stumbled across a potion I thought she would be delighted to read about.”

 

Her eyebrow bounced infinitesimally, and she gave a curt nod. She may not know why he wanted to speak, what he was about to unleash on her, but thank fuck she understood enough to know he was going to speak to her about her little problem. Potter stood behind Weasley and looked from Granger to Draco and sighed, placing a hand on Weasley’s shoulder. “He’s creating healing potions. Hermione is the best healer we have in the Compound, Ron. Even your mum acknowledges that she has a way with it. It only makes sense that they would need to confer on occasion. Lavender went to bed already—why don’t you spend some time with her? I think she’s feeling neglected lately,” Potter told him, his face splitting into a grin as he finished his thought.

 

“Neglected?” Weasley huffed, dropping his arms to his sides with a loud smack of his palms against his legs. “How could she possibly feel neglected? I spend nearly every waking moment with her!”

 

“You know Lav-Lav,” Ginny began, lacing her fingers with Potters’, “if you aren’t sucking her face off every minute of every day, she begins to realize the world doesn’t revolve around her. And we all know she isn’t ready to face that reality, yet, Won-Won.”

 

Weasley’s eye caught Granger’s and she raised one eyebrow challengingly. “You put yourself into this situation.”

 

Draco glanced around at all of them, clearly missing an important piece of information with regards to whatever past aggrievance it was that was causing the tension to settle over the longtime friends. “Just meet me in the potions workshop, Granger.”

 

With that, he strode into the cool night, leaving behind a whiny sounding Weasley. _“…why did you have to try and embarrass me?”_

_“Really, Ronald…grow up. You chose Lavender…”_

While he enjoyed the brisk walk across the courtyard, breathing in the fresh air before he was bound to pollute his lungs with a cigarette, the same could not be said for Granger. She was already standing in his potions workshop, having apparated ahead of his arrival. Her eyes were roving over the book on his bench. “A nourishment potion?” her voice was hoarse, barely making a noise across his small room.

 

Draco came to stand directly next to her, dropping the potato down a little too forcefully—he crushed one of the dragonfly wings in his haste. “If you are going to starve yourself, then you will drink these. Even if I have to force it down your throat.”

 

Granger looked up at him, her brows knit together and an angry grimace flittering across her face. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

 

He leaned on one hand on the workbench and faced her. “You aren’t taking care of yourself. And since none of the other thirty idiots who filter in and out of here on a daily basis can see you’re suffering, I’ll handle it my fucking self.”

 

“What do you _care_?” she pressed, turning to face him, her arms crossed over her chest.

 

“Because you need to be healthy. The Death Eaters will look for your weaknesses and use them against you!”

 

“What about the others? Are you lecturing them about their shortcomings?”

 

Here it was—she had cornered him and the situation made him immensely uncomfortable. The loss of control in this moment had his mind reeling and he ground his teeth so harshly, he feared they may break. Draco had no real explanation to give to her on why he cared so much that _she_ remained healthy and strong. He didn’t care about any of the others—they were not worth their weight in galleons anyway. He couldn’t possibly explain to her that he needed her strength, that he had begun to feed off her tenacity and kindness and looked to her to be the grapnel that held him in place as the world around them turned on its axis and the darkness crept ever closer to their safe haven in the Scottish Highlands.

 

She turned so that she was half-sitting against the table’s edge and Draco stepped in front of her, his anger with her lack of self-care rising in the back of his throat, burning like bile. His hands dropped to either side of her hips and lowered his face level with hers. His hands were shaking, and he gripped the table to make the vibrating cease. “Will you drink the potion willingly or will I have to hold you down?”

 

“Why can’t you just drop it?” she asked, trying to sit up from her place on the table.

 

He had her pinned with his hands on either side of her, though his left arm was still weak and she could have easily fought him off. “Tell me why you’re doing this to yourself? You hardly seem like the vain type.”

 

“It’s nothing. I have the situation under control—” she tried to push him aside and Draco refused to budge.

 

His eyes met hers and he could see hers growing glassy with unshed tears. Their faces were so close, his nose nearly brushed hers. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look, so I don’t understand why you would be so reckless.”

 

Granger’s mouth was pressed firmly shut, her bottom lip quivering as she tried to deny her emotions the chance to emerge. He put his hand on her chin and held it in place, his thumb pressing the trembling center. “Don’t. I told you earlier that I don’t want to see your tears. You tell me why you’re doing this, Granger. I’m not one of your idiotic friends—I _know_ something is wrong.”

 

He felt a pang of guilt settle in the pit of his gut at the severe tone he had when speaking to her, but he knew that if he began displaying any kind of sympathy that it would be mistaken for weakness. It wouldn’t do to form bonds when tomorrows weren’t guaranteed, and a War loomed over them like a maelstrom in the storm clouds.

 

He felt her hips move where his were pinning her against the table and he brought his hand from her chin and ran a single finger over her protruding collarbone. “I won’t let you destroy yourself. You’ll drink the potions,” he told her affirmatively, pushing away from the table and only realizing how close he had been to the witch when his body was suddenly cold in her absence. “And we will get you eating actual food again.”

 

“How? You think I haven’t tried?” she asked, tears finally spilling—ones she swiped at bitterly.

 

“I don’t know, Granger. I’m not a fucking mind healer. A little at a time is all I can say. For now, drink the fucking nourishment potions,” Draco hissed, going to his ingredients cupboard to retrieve another dragonfly wing to replace the one he had accidentally crushed.

 

Once his back was to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his head tucked into the cupboard so she could not see him. Granger made him so irrationally angry, but Merlin, he couldn’t stand seeing her so broken. It shredded a part of him, the part that he had long thought dormant after years in the Dark Lord’s clutches. It was frightening to feel such foreign sentiments and he again thought of how it wouldn’t do to get attached to someone in a time where he could be hunted down and slaughtered at any moment. A friendship would only serve to hurt them both.

 

He held the delicate wing in his fingertips and fought to turn around, wishing beyond hope that she had already apparated away, though the telltale crack hadn’t split through the night. Granger was standing in the middle of the room and hugging herself, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeves of her jumper. Draco stared at the floor as he passed her. “It will be done in a few hours. I’ll bring it to your room in the morning.”

 

He meant it as a dismissal, but Granger lingered in the center of his room for a few moments longer. He could feel her gaze on his back and it made the hair at the nape of his neck stand on end. He heard the brushes of her jeans against the wood flooring as she came to stand behind him. Her fingertips were warm as she moved them tentatively down his arm to rest over his mermaid scales. Draco eyed her in his peripheral and she was staring at his arm with an undeterminable look on her face. “I prefer chocolate to vanilla,” she told him quietly, her fingertips tickling over his arm before they were gone, and she had left him alone.

 

Draco leaned heavily against the workbench and took a few deep, grounding breaths. She had agreed to drink the potion, but she continued to hold her secrets close to her heart. He sighed and retrieved a small square of chocolate from his nightstand, replacing the vanilla bean in its rightful jar. _It’s for the better._ Swapping their darkest secrets would only cause trouble for them in the future anyway.

 

o-o-o


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

Hermione was sitting in the window perch the next morning, exhausted from a restless night of tossing and turning. The sky outside of her window was streaked with early morning violet and rose as the sun peeked over the horizon, casting light over the dew and turning it into a sea of sparkling diamonds. She watched as Molly made her way across the courtyard, still hugging her arms around her ribs, though her injuries were long-healed. Her forehead plunked against the glass of the window just as Molly began knocking quietly on the doors down the men's corridor.

Nearly able to count Molly's predictable footsteps, shuffling a path in her slippers down the women's corridor, she held her breath when a soft knock sounded. "Hermione, dear, breakfast is ready," the kindly Weasley matriarch said, opening the door on the third rap of her knuckles. "Oh, you're awake! I didn't mean to disturb you, but I do hope you come to breakfast today."

The underlying accusation was bare for Hermione to see and hear. Why haven't you been to breakfast recently? Hermione simply smiled and Molly gave her a motherly smile in return, backing out of the room. The door did not click shut all of the way, and a draft jostled it ajar. Padding slowly across the wood floors, Hermione moved to close it just as another knock sounded. This one was sharp, purposeful.

The sound of the insistent pounding caused her heart to speed up and butterflies began to beat their wings dangerously in her belly. "Granger?" His voice was rough, gravelly with sleep—or lack thereof.

His head popped around the door to peer into her room and Hermione circled his upper arm with her hand tightly, pulling him into the room. "Get in here, before someone else questions why you're coming to my room so early," she hissed, looking conspiratorially down the hall before closing the door softly.

Malfoy was dressed in only a pair of black joggers, slung low on his hips. In his hand, he held a repurposed glass butterbeer bottle and he lifted it between them for Hermione to inspect. Drawing her lips between her teeth, she noticed that it was a shade of milky brown—passable for butterbeer should anyone ever question it. "Drink it," Malfoy urged as she lifted one hand to delicately touch the glass with one finger, withdrawing her hand as though burned by his insistence.

Her heart was slamming in its cage and she could feel the heat spread over her chest and creep up her neck. She had lain awake for hours, wondering about Malfoy's strange treatment of her, of his callous reaction to her mental state and the resulting issues, wondering if he would actually go through with his hostile threats. Hermione was quickly realizing that she should never doubt when Draco Malfoy said he was going to do something because he had proven time and again that he was a man who followed through on all threats.

Lifting one eyebrow, he thrust the bottle in her direction. "Didn't think I'd actually make it?" he questioned, his voice sickeningly sweet as he pinpointed her bluff.

She swallowed hard and took a step back, one Malfoy quickly matched. "I'm not drinking anything," Hermione spat, taking another step back. "I've no proof you haven't poisoned it."

This statement caused Malfoy to scoff and roll his eyes though he took another advancing step toward her. "Give it a fucking rest, Granger," he told her just as the backs of her legs touched the edge of her bed. "If I were going to poison, or otherwise kill any of you, I would have done it by now and left—no reason to stick around this long. And I would not have gone through the dramatic removal of my Mark if my only reasoning was to infiltrate and murder you within mere weeks."

Hermione knew he was telling the truth, but there was a sharp edge to his voice, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, raising one hand to rest over her ribcage. She had no doubt he could feel how erratically her traitorous heart was thumping under his palm as his fingers pressed a little harder into her skin. He brought his lips lower, close to her ear. "I've already told you once, little witch, and I'm not in the habit of repeating myself. If you don't open your mouth and swallow this down, I will tie you to the headboard and force it down your throat."

Her knees fought to buckle as he pressed into her personal space, though she maintained her stance, looking down at the bottle between them. For months now, she had carefully hidden her secret. To accept the potion was to accept that someone else would share in her misery. Someone else knew that she was a failure, a sorry sad-sack who had lost the sense of control and battled to maintain what little bit she could in the best way she knew how—controlling her own body. Accepting this potion was admitting defeat and showing a willingness to accept help.

His breath ruffled the hair on her forehead as he stood close, waiting for her to take what he was offering. His patience wearing thin, his fingertips pressed into her ribcage. "What the fuck is your problem, Granger? Take the potion—you'll feel better."

Tears threatened to fall as she fought the demonic voice in her head telling her that she was worthless, a pushover, weak. Take the potion—you'll feel better. Better how? Would the painful ache of her ravished stomach finally cease and allow her to sleep, just one night? Would she regain the energy she claimed she lost from days of worry and nights of endless terrors? Would it simply knock her out cold and she wouldn't have to feel at all?

You'll feel better. Or perhaps she would feel better simply because he knew. He knew and he cared. In his own, fucked up way, Malfoy cared about her wellbeing. He had only been here for a short while, but in that time, he had revealed his inclination to care about her safety and health on more than one occasion—first with warning her to move her parents and now with the nourishment potions. For some peculiar reason, unbeknownst to her, he held her in high enough regard that he deemed her worth saving. He was refusing to allow her to sink into the abyssal self-destructive path she was sprinting toward and the thought that he—her childhood bully, a Death Eater, a stranger—was going to be the one to pull her back from the edge was utterly overwhelming.

Tears clouded her vision as she took the bottle into one shaking hand. She uncorked it and brought it to her lips, finding it difficult to stifle down her pride before she swallowed a large sip. "That's a good girl. One more," Malfoy urged in a rasping whisper, watching as she obeyed.

He took the bottle from her and set it on her nightstand before he lifted one of the curls from her chest between them. As Hermione watched, the curl—dull and limp with malnourishment—began to grow in volume, glinting in the dim light of her lantern and the early morning sun. Her lips parted as she felt the potion begin to work within her body, revitalizing energy and satiating the ever-present rumble of her stomach. He smirked as he took her hand and brought it to rest over her ribs opposite where his hand still remained. Even as she stood there, she felt the skin across her ribs plumpen the slightest under their hands. "It's incredible," she whispered, though the awe was quickly being tamped down by fear and recklessness.

This potion was efficient and would undo every act of merciless masochism she had put herself through to reach this point. She feared the moment she would have to take her jeans out once more, to look at her cheeks as they filled out and regained color. Deep within her, she knew what she had been putting herself through was destroying her, could eventually lead to her death. But the desire to maintain control over her own life, her own body, her own mind was far deeper. Her hands were shaking at the thought of giving him even the slightest bit of her—a portion he commanded and threatened into receiving.

"I laced the original nourishment potion with saffron and St. John's wort—for the depression. Chamomile for anxiety. Valerian for sleeplessness, activated only when you lay your head to rest. You said you preferred the taste of chocolate to vanilla and it took me a few tries to cancel out the taste of the additives and focus on cocoa, but I think it doesn't taste too terrible," he mentioned casually, though Hermione could hear the softening of his tone at that moment.

Hermione, having avoided his eyes as she felt and watched the subtle changes beginning to take place within her own body, looked up to find that his hair held more of a shine and the violet rings around his eyes had faded to a more manageable grey. He had tested the potion to make sure he had perfected it.

Her eyes raked over his bare chest, noting violent scars marring his skin in the pale golden light that filled the room. There were clusters, akin to small constellations, across his chest in three different places, varying in levels of healing. The Cruciatus. A deep gash ran just below his sternum, jagged and crudely healed. A knife wound. A patch, no larger than her palm was hidden in the tops of his joggers over his left thigh, and it was paler than the rest of his skin, taut and shiny. A burn. In all of the hours she had spent tending to his arm, she had refused to look at the rest of him again, to face what they all knew from the moment they found him bleeding out onto the stoop of Grimmauld Place. He's been through hell.

More miraculously, though he looked exhausted beneath it all, he was still fit, agile and strong. Hermione swallowed down the urge to run her fingers over each place, to press him into telling his stories. A dull ache in her chest reminded her that this was not Harry or Ron—she couldn't stay up into the wee hours of the morning to both give and take comfort, as she had so many nights with her best friends. Malfoy held secrets that none of them would ever understand, even now, after a thorough interrogation upon his arrival.

Still, he stood in her room, refusing to tolerate her self-pity and destructive behaviors. He was saving her in his own stubborn, brash manner. Slick trails rolled over her cheeks and Malfoy sighed. "I've told you—I don't want to see your tears, witch."

With a huff of a laugh, Hermione closed the few inches between them and laced her arms around his neck. Malfoy stiffened, unfamiliar with that level of intimacy, before his hand slid around her ribcage to rest on her back, his other touching her hip lightly. "You're not as much of a prick as you try and portray," she told him and his grumbling chuckle rippled through her.

"You bloody heroes—always so optimistic," he muttered in her ear.

Hermione expected him to pull away from her, to push her aside and reprimand her for how absolutely idiotic it was that she should starve herself when they are in the midst of a war and plenty of others were dying of starvation. He was cold and callous, every word that rolled from his tongue biting. And yet, just as she went to pull away, she could have sworn she felt his hands pull her closer for the briefest of moments. His fingers splayed a little more widely, pressing a little more possessively. His arms tightened infinitesimally around her and she knew he was taking what little comfort he could from her. When she did untangle her arms from around his neck, his earthy scent filling her mind curiously, Malfoy was eyeing her with a strange look she couldn't place.

Staring up at him, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed as he looked down at her and crossed his arms. His facade easily slipped back into place and once again, he was hidden behind the mask of calculating aggression. He had let his guard down for a moment, but it was long enough for the witch to see his loneliness and fear laid bare. Sensing this, his jaw clenched and his teeth clicked as he pursed his lips. "I don't know why you're doing this," he stated, repeating his sentiments from the day before. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with the way you look and you're far too intelligent to be so vain."

And the enchanting moment was gone, the caring man she had shared an embrace with replaced by a pissy Malfoy she could deal with a little more readily. Her eyes wavered over to the butterbeer bottle and she swallowed, feeling small under his scrutinizing gaze. "You don't understand."

"You're damn right I don't."

"It's nothing to do with how I look," Hermione told him, still avoiding his eyes as she spoke. "It's more to do with how I feel."

"I'm not following," he admitted and she sensed that this confession angered him.

"I don't expect you to," she replied simply with a shrug of her shoulders.

Malfoy dropped his hands and sat swiftly next to her. "For fuck's sake, Granger. I'm not a fucking mind reader. And I'm certainly not a mind healer."

Irritation began to well at the back of her throat as she felt cornered once more. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked over his shoulder at her. "They called me the Interrogator because I had a penchant for finding out information relevant to the cause and the mission," he reminded her icily, raising an eyebrow.

"Your threats don't work with me, Malfoy," she warned, pulling the blanket from her bed around her shoulders, as though hiding her thinned frame would suddenly cause him to drop the subject.

His scent was still everywhere, clouding her thoughts and fueling her anger. Hermione was uncertain as to why she could not verbalize every fucked up feeling she had battling within her. Another glance at his marred and ruined body reassured her that he would be able to match every one of her haunting thoughts with one of his own. Still, she remained silent and his patience wore thinner with every tick of her muggle clock.

Deciding on a different approach, Malfoy leaned back on his palms and Hermione looked down at him beside her, noting with an embarrassing flush the way his pale flesh contrasted handsomely against the dark plum of her bedding. "Why haven't your friends said anything? Molly? Andromeda?" he questioned, his tone still sharp as a dagger though she knew his rage was shifting away from her and to the other Order members who had watched her day in and day out and done nothing.

Hermione scoffed and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. "You really should start spending time with the others and less time holed up in your room or potions workshop."

Malfoy rolled his eyes but gestured with one hand that she should continue. "If you would get out of your own endless cycle of self-deprecation for five minutes," she spoke slowly to him, as though she was reprimanding a child, a fact that made him grind his teeth in agitation, "you would be able to see that everyone here is suffering in one way or another. Harry suffers from blinding migraines that drop him—sometimes for days at a time. Ginny tends to him closely."

Lying by omission, now? There was no way Hermione would be the one to tell Malfoy that Harry shared a strange mind connection with Voldemort. "Ron is moody and has an explosive temper," she put a finger up to silence Malfoy when he parted his lips to argue. "More than ever. It's…" her voice trailed off for a moment as some of her rows with Ron played on a reel in her mind, "one of the reasons we aren't together any longer."

The steel grey of Malfoy's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened before she averted her eyes. Some stories, she reasoned, were better left untold. "Lavender seems to live up to her name's sake, as she is able to calm him down in most instances. Probably because she readily spreads her legs for him," Hermione grumbled, mostly to herself, though she shared a chuckle with Malfoy before continuing. "Luna is quieter, more reserved than ever. Most days, I find her staring off at the mountains, as though she's waiting for something—or someone—to come down from the mountaintops and decimate us. Neville spends time with her when he visits and I think it really helps to ground her, bring her back to herself. Molly and Andy, both, have alluded to knowing something is wrong. But how exactly do you ask someone of fair intelligence and determination if they are purposely sabotaging their own health? Besides just accosting them over potato soup," Hermione added, giving him a small upturn of her lips.

Malfoy responded with a half-smile, not quite a sneer but not a heartfelt smile either. "Not everyone has my finesse," he agreed with a shrug. "I don't care about your feelings. I care about making sure you don't kill yourself. If this War takes you, it needs to be on the battlefield—not because you've made some foolish choices as you sit, cooped up in your hideaway. There are people relying on you to win this War and your friends should be more diligent, in taking care of themselves and you."

Hermione was certain he was not speaking of greater Britain when he spoke the latter statement. "How can anyone help me, if they're too destroyed and ruined to help themselves? It's no one else's job to ensure I stay sane and healthy."

"I'm not a healer. I can't fix how fucked up your mind is—especially when you keep all of your secrets bottled up inside. But there is one thing I know for certain, perhaps better than anyone here. There is a War going on out there, Granger. It may not seem that way as we all awaken here at the Compound and share a meal, play wizarding chess, go for a run in the clean air. The War isn't just looming on the horizon, waiting to strike. Beyond the confines of this property, there are witches and wizards being tortured for any ounce of information they may hold. The time is rapidly approaching, with these Horcruxes needing to be destroyed, where we are going to have to go out and fight. It is everyone's responsibility to make sure we all have each other's backs as we fight against the Dark Lord's army. Or we will lose this War. Everyone you just named has someone to care for them when the darkness seeps in and threatens to swallow them. But, who do you have?" he questioned, sitting up when his tone became urgent as he tried to instill the sense of importance in her.

Hermione's mouth had grown dry and she refused to meet his gaze. He breathed one harsh breath out through his nose and stood. "Pathetic," he mumbled, and she felt his anger radiating from him as he rolled his shoulders. "Just drink the potion twice a week."

And with that, he left her room, the slam of her door the punctuation on their conversation. Hermione was left to stare at the oak slab, tears falling freely over her cheeks as she wept openly in his cold absence. She had always prided herself a logical woman, one who thought through every decision and its consequences thoroughly before acting. She knew there was a War—dark and gritty and dangerous—being fought just beyond the mountains Luna was so fond of watching. Innocents had lost their lives and they had buried a few of their own already. Malfoy just had a way of speaking to her, refusing to mince words to protect her feelings, that she both appreciated and feared in equal parts.

Hanging her head in her hands, she thought about him. Who did she have? Who did he have? The way he had asked the question—with such insistence in his tone—made her wonder if he thought they had each other. Hermione had nursed him back to health and healed his arm and he was resolutely returning the favor in brewing the nourishment potions. She pulled the blanket away from her shoulders, bringing with it the comfort of being hidden. A frightening thought crossed her mind, one that told her the safety she had felt only moments prior had come from his presence.

Hermione dressed quickly and grabbed her knitting needles and a skein of black wool. The sleeping quarters and commons area were all blessedly empty as she made her way through. The air outside was fresh, crisp and filling her lungs with the scent of turned earth and melted snow. There was an oak tree that stood just beyond the dining hall and kitchens and she made her way over to it, the ground sopping beneath her wellies.

Casting a drying charm, she sat with her back against the trunk and dropped her head back. The temperature was not frigid, but there was a cool breeze playing across her curls. Through the barren branches above her, she could readily gaze upon the early morning sky. From this angle, she was reminded of when she was a little girl—carefree and eager to climb and swing from the boughs of her parents' large sycamore tree.

The gentle wind rustled and the branches rubbed against one another, creating a subtle harmony of sounds to lure her into a reticent daze. Mesmerized by the way the boughs broke through the blue of the morning sky, she thought of the way she'd always felt as a child when she made it to the top of that sycamore. Looking down on the rest of the world from meters up, her voice echoing in the surrounding limbs as she let out a warrior's call. She'd felt powerful then, as the crows scattered and the world seemed small beneath her.

Footsteps sounded near her, soft squelching noises as the individual's feet got stuck in the mud over and over. Hermione closed her eyes, unprepared to speak to anyone else just yet. She felt the grass around her rustle and the body heat of another against the tree's trunk. In the distance, closer to the dining hall, she could hear the voices of multiple males. Arguing. No—bickering. With a heavy sigh, she lifted her head.

Luna sat alongside her, picking blades of grass and transfiguring them into small daisies to create a chain. Ahead, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Malfoy were standing in a makeshift circle, a pile of glass panels in the center. Ron and Malfoy both held identical stances—their arms crossed and frowning deeply as Neville spoke. "What are they on about?" Hermione questioned, waving in their general direction.

Luna didn't bother to look up as she continued weaving daisy stems together. "Ron and Harry want to do everything with magic, quickly in other words. Draco wants to put some work into it—says a day in the sun would do them all good. Neville tried to remain neutral, but I know he sides with Draco because he can see that this greenhouse is important to him."

Furrowing her brow, Hermione looked toward the group of men with a renewed interest. Malfoy suggested they do things by hand? She would have guessed that his privileged upbringing would have swayed him to use magic any and every time. As she stared, now idly clicking the knitting needles to appear preoccupied, Malfoy ripped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Fearing a fight, she made to stand. Malfoy turned on his heel and snatched up a few slats of wood. Ron glared after him until Harry put his hand in the center of his chest and pushed him toward the pile of glass slats and framing.

Malfoy conjured a workbench from a single piece of wood and Neville followed suit, all the while eyeing Malfoy's bare chest with an apprehensive curiosity. The mermaid scales along his arm shimmered in the light and Hermione wondered if the cool air bothered him at all. Drawing her lip between her teeth, she fought to focus on the knitting in her hands, looping one too many times.

Another peek at Malfoy and she watched as he made a hammering motion with his wand, piecing wood together to create garden boxes. His back to her, she watched the way his shoulder blades and muscles moved beneath the surface of his skin, marveling once more at how agile and capable he was even after his prolonged illness.

"He's quite handsome isn't he?" Luna asked dreamily, pausing in her ministrations to glance toward the men.

Hermione could feel the flush rising in her chest. "Sure," she muttered, clearing her throat and returning to her work, "if you like pointy ferrets."

Luna stilled her hands completely and dropped them into her lap, looking over at Hermione. The latter lifted her head and raised an eyebrow at the look her friend gave. "Does Neville have a fondness for ferrets? I had no idea."

Hermione tucked her face into the collar of her coat, her cheeks flaming as she realized that Luna had been referring to her own longtime crush. Her eyes flickered to Malfoy, who caught her gaze as he lifted the box away from the workbench. She could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched before he turned his back to her once more.

o-o-o

They worked in blissful silence for the majority of the day, with Draco and Longbottom piecing together the herb boxes and raised beds to house within the greenhouse walls that those two fucking dunderheads erected. Indolent bastards, afraid of a little hard work. The mix of magic and handiwork paid off, he had to admit begrudgingly when they stood back that evening to stare at their day's work.

"I still don't understand why my mother was so insistent we build you a greenhouse," Weasley complained, crossing his arms over his now-bare chest petulantly.

"Because Malfoy knows more about potions-making than even Snape did," Longbottom spoke before Draco could even open his mouth. "It's only natural that he should have unlimited access to the necessary ingredients."

Weasley scoffed and Potter sighed. "Drop it, Ron. We need his insight into our little problem, and it won't do to piss him off now."

Draco looked beside him, irritation flaring up as the bespectacled arsehole pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What the fuck are you on about?"

"Harry thinks you may be able to offer some insider information," Weasley rolled his eyes. "Like you and He were best mates, braiding each other's hair or something."

"Hermione mentioned that you haven't been too evil lately," Potter mentioned, and Draco's eyes darted through the glass to where Granger and Lovegood were planting a large trellis in the ground alongside the far wall of the greenhouse.

"Is that right? S'pose I'll have to try a little harder to live up to your expectations then," he drawled, waving his wand so that the spare fragments of glass and wood disappeared.

"It's about the Horcruxes," Potter blathered, shoving his hands into his pockets as he exchanged a glance with Weasley.

Draco's spine stiffened as he looked between the two. They had been outside, working in near silence all day, and now they had something important to speak about? He huffed agitatedly and gave Potter a commanding wave. "Out with it, then."

"Before he died," Potter started, grief entering his emerald eyes, "Dumbledore began showing me memories he had of Tom Riddle's life."

"What kind of memories?"

Weasley shuffled from one foot to the other uncomfortably. He was clearly guarded in his beliefs, causing Draco to wonder how much of Dumbledore's lies and manipulations the redhead actually bought into. "Strange glimpses into his life. Things about his mother, the orphanage where he grew up."

"It didn't occur to me until we were discussing Horcruxes the other night that the ring he was wearing when he died—the one on his gangrenous hand—could be one," Potter told him, looking rightfully ashamed of not connecting the pieces sooner. "I never noticed that ring before sixth year. But the moment he put it on, his health became increasingly worse until…"

Until your lot killed him. The unspoken words hung in the air between them, causing Weasley to look at him with unrestrained disdain. He may not have believed everything Dumbledore preached, but he certainly blamed Draco for the start to the war. "You got the locket from him—why not the ring as well?"

"It was stuck to his finger; Hagrid couldn't get it off when he laid him in the tomb. He wasn't going to remove the locket until it opened on its own and the note fell out," Potter explained, retrieving the locket from his trousers pocket and opening it. His eyes glanced over the words Draco had already memorized and he looked to Weasley and Longbottom before settling his gaze on Draco. "We need to get that ring."

o-o-o

A/N: I'm sorry about the long wait for this. Thank you for all of the support shown! I really appreciate all of the reviews and follows!


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